


Burn, Burn the Heart

by Ginger_Cat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Does anyone in this series ever stay dead?, Eventual Johnlock, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Moriarty is Alive, Parentlock, Post-His Last Vow, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 03:47:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 75,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3160040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginger_Cat/pseuds/Ginger_Cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary is evil. John is dead (or so everyone thinks). Of all the scenarios in which Sherlock might have become a father, this one was certainly the least desirable. </p><p>  <em>“Poor Sherlock.” Moriarty tutted into the microphone, the sound of his voice reverberating annoyingly against the walls of the larger room. “When I told you that I would burn the heart out of you, did you not believe me? Silly Sherlock. You should have believed me.”</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

                “Tell me it’s a trick. Tell me you know, you’ve known all along that this was going to happen. Tell me you lied to me about it, because you’ve got some grand, master plan in the works. Tell me you’re one step ahead of him.”

                Sherlock leaned forward, his hands already on the glass wall, and pressed his forehead against it in an image of defeat.

                “Tell me that you knew about Mary, even. The whole time. I wouldn’t care, Sherlock, if it was all for a plan, if you could get us out of this bloody mess.”

                 John banged his fists on the window, making Sherlock flinch. _It has to be a trick,_ he thought, _like on the roof of St. Bart’s. He knows exactly what he’s doing._ He just couldn’t believe that this was it, that Sherlock had been outsmarted, outwitted, out-deduced, and that John was going to die for it.

                Jim Moriarty grinned wickedly from behind the observation deck’s windows, Mary Watson standing next to him with an equally evil smirk on her face. “Poor Sherlock.” Moriarty tutted into the microphone, the sound of his voice reverberating annoyingly against the walls of the larger room. “When I told you that I would burn the heart out of you, did you not believe me? Silly Sherlock. You should have believed me.”

                “What do you want?” Sherlock's voice was barely audible.

                Moriarty’s eyes flickered wider than humanly possible, his grotesque smile growing and morphing into his next words. He wrapped his fingers around the microphone, and when he spoke, his voice was thick with ecstasy.

                “ _This_.”

                Sherlock closed his eyes.

                “This is what I want, Sherlock. To see you suffer. To watch your heart break.” He spoke slowly, relishing every word. “To watch everything you are come undone, fall to pieces. And to know that I am the cause.”

                Moriarty sat back in his chair, relaxing. “You made a mistake, Sher-lock. You fell in lo-ove” (a two-syllable word). “That singular human weakness, so disgusting, yuck!” He made a face. “I thought you were above all that, Sherlock, I really did. I’m almost sad to prove myself wrong. But you are, like every other human being on this planet, molded and ruined by sentiment. How positively boring.” Moriarty sighed and shook his head. “Now all I’ve got to enjoy is your absolute anguish in watching the one person you love in this world suffer and die... Oh well!”

                “You’re wrong,” John broke in. “You’re wrong about him. Sherlock is a sociopath; he can’t love.” He turned around and glared at Moriarty through his glass cage, avoiding looking over at Mary. “He can’t. So all of this is a waste, what you’re doing.”

                Moriarty grinned again. “How adorable you really are, John! Nice try, but unfortunately for you, Sherlock is not a sociopath. In fact, he’s the farthest thing from it. His emotions are so intense, that he is afraid of what they can do to him. They’re so cripplingly powerful that he’s tried to train himself to avoid them altogether. Tried and failed, I might add.” Moriarty cocked his head to one side and looked at Sherlock with mock concern. “Isn’t that right, honey?”

                “Tell him he’s wrong,” John spun around and stared forcefully at Sherlock, willing him to play along. “Tell him, Sherlock. You don’t love anyone.”

                Sherlock finally looked up and met John’s eyes, and John was struck by the intensity of the emotion he saw there. “I’m so sorry, John,” he whispered. He rolled his forehead across the glass, shaking it in disbelief. “I’ve been so foolish. Please, forgive me.”

                John felt a sharp heat tear through his heart. _It’s true, then,_ he thought. _He_ does _love me_. John thought about it, supposed he always knew to some degree—even before people “talked,” even before he’d overheard Sherlock’s conversation with Mrs. Hudson, even before Sherlock’s parents had outright told him—

                John slowly stepped up to the wall, matching the position of Sherlock’s hands on the other side of the glass with his own. He leaned forward and put his head at Sherlock’s level, pressing it close. “There’s nothing to forgive."

                Sherlock’s hands curled into fists.

                “This is all very touching,” interrupted Moriarty, “and if it were any other day I’d say keep going; it’ll make for a far more entertaining end. But unfortunately I have other appointments on my schedule, so we’re going to have to get this party started.”

                “John—“ Sherlock began, their eyes locking.

                “Sherlock—“

                “I can’t—“

                “I know—“

                “I’m so—“

                “Me too—“

                A very large, muscular man stepped up into John’s chamber. He grabbed John by the shirt collar with one hand and effortlessly peeled him off the glass, throwing him hard into the opposite corner. There was a loud _crash_ as he made contact with the thick glass wall. John felt his whole body throb in pain. He slowly picked himself up to his hands and knees, wiping blood off of his now-split lip. _So that’s what they’re going to do_ , he thought. _They’re going to just—_

                “Beat him to death,” Moriarty commanded. “The old-fashioned way.”

                Sherlock’s eyes became wide. _“No—“_

                “Make it hurt.” Moriarty's lips curled into a smile, again. “Make him _scream."_


	2. Prologue

                “And, of course, there was the fiasco with that damned dog.” Sherlock’s mother sipped her tea as his father nodded in agreement.

                “Oh yes, what was his name? Redboy?” Sherlock’s father asked, jovially.

                “Redbeard,” said his mother. “Like the pirate, dear—you remember, Sherlock always wanted to be a pirate.”

                Sherlock’s father chuckled. “Yes, that’s right.”

                “Wait a minute,” interrupted John. “Redbeard… I’ve heard that name mentioned before—and every time, Sherlock looks like he’s seen a bloody ghost.”

                They were relaxing out in the backyard garden, baby Anna sitting in the grass, kicking her legs against the soft leaves in enjoyment. They’d come round for a visit while Mary “took care of some business” in the nearby town. John wasn’t really sure what that meant, exactly, but at this point, he was beyond asking. She’d been acting strange for a few weeks now, and became terribly defensive whenever John questioned her about it.

                “Well, it was quite the traumatic experience,” said Sherlock’s father, his friendly eyes showing a bit of sadness behind them.

                “Through no fault of mine,” interjected Sherlock’s mum. “I was against it from the beginning.” She pursed her lips.

                “You see,” continued his father, “Sherlock didn’t have any friends growing up. Neither really did Mycroft, for that matter, but at least he always had his group of cronies following him around. But Sherlock, he was such a lonely boy, that we decided—“

                “You,” interrupted his mother. “Not ‘we,’ ‘ _you_.’”

                “I,” Sherlock’s father corrected, smiling at his wife, “I thought it would be good for him to have a pet. You know, something to cuddle, to love.”

                “That’s one thing that Sherlock always seemed to need as a little boy,” said his mother, a bit disdainfully. “Much more than Mycroft. Maybe it was because Mikey was so beastly to him, I don’t know. But he always seemed lonely, he always needed someone else. Anyway, we bought that dog and the two of them were inseparable for the better part of a year. But then, of course, the bloody thing went out and got itself hit by a car. Stupid animals, dogs.” She put another lump of sugar in her tea, stirring it.

                “We had to put it down,” Sherlock’s father went on. “And poor Sherlock, he took it rather hard.”

                “’Rather hard’ is an understatement, darling,” said Sherlock’s mum, tapping her teaspoon on the lip of the cup. She looked at John. “The boy was completely devastated. Locked himself in his room, sobbing, under the covers for a week. Could hear him all throughout the house.”

                “Mycroft made such fun of him,” said his father, with a bit of disappointment. “He could be a nasty brother, at times, couldn’t he, my dear?”

                Mrs. Holmes sat thoughtfully for a moment. “I don’t remember Sherlock ever getting attached to something like that again, after what happened. I think that’s when he developed that ridiculous idea about sentiment. ‘The singular defect of the human race’ or something along those lines.”

                “The poor boy, he was ever so sensitive. He has such a big heart.” Mr. Holmes turned to John with a knowing look.

                “Of course, his whole ‘sociopath’ routine fell apart when he met you, John,” Sherlock’s mother said, smiling (if a little slyly) and watching for John’s reaction. "He became very much attached to you, didn't he?"

                John squirmed uncomfortably under her comment. He was used to people thinking that he and Sherlock were a couple (although, not so much since he’d been married) or that Sherlock was in love with him, but it was doubly awkward to hear it from Sherlock’s parents. He couldn’t exactly use the “It’s not true, I know Sherlock better than you,” defense. _Just calm down_ , thought John. _She didn’t say “in love.” She only said he'd become 'attached.' Attached to you like he was to his dog when he was a child_ (John wasn't too keen on being compared to a dog, but he ultimately decided to take it as a compliment). _The one he sobbed over_. John tried to imagine Sherlock sobbing over anything—he couldn’t quite picture it. He’d seen Sherlock cry, but not _sob_ … It was impossible to think that he could ever be so out of control.

                “Yes, he’s wholly admitted that I’m his friend. Best friend, at that,” John offered, giving Sherlock’s parents the benefit of the doubt.

                “But you’re not just his friend, are you, John?” Sherlock’s mother asked, her eyes twinkling. “You’re the only thing he cares about.”

                “Well, besides solving crimes, you know,” John retorted, reddening with embarrassment.

                “Oh, he only does that to keep himself occupied, darling,” said Sherlock’s mother dismissively. “He’s got such an intelligent, busy mind. But this thing, with you… well...”

                “He’s in love with you, John,” said Sherlock’s father.

                John blanched. He wasn’t sure what to say, he didn’t want to have to have the “I’m not gay” conversation again, especially with Sherlock’s parents.

                “Oh, we know you’re not gay,” said Sherlock’s mother, reading his mind. “But Sherlock is.”

                John stared at her, open-mouthed.

                “We just thought you should know,” she continued, ignoring his expression, “that someone should tell you. As his parents, we just want you to be… aware.” Protective now, Sherlock’s mother chose her words carefully. “To go easy on him. To be understanding.”

                “Not to lead him on,” said Sherlock’s father.

                “I—I—“ John sputtered.

                “Not that you have been,” Mrs. Holmes said quickly. “But maybe you should encourage him, as good friends do, to move on. Not in those words—tactfully, of course—but he can’t keep pining for you, John.”

                John was still in shock from the revelation that Sherlock was actually gay. He’d always suspected it, but Sherlock just seemed so uninterested in anything that had to do with sex that he’d sort of forgotten about it. He wanted to ask Sherlock’s parents more questions, but he didn’t think it appropriate. Though if Sherlock _was_ in love with him… John wholeheartedly agreed that Sherlock had to move on. “Of course,” he said, trying to recover from the turn the conversation had taken. “I… erm… I’ll see what I can do.”

                Sherlock’s parents looked at each other and smiled.

                “That’s all we can ask.”


	3. Prologue

                John had tried, had tried really, very hard not to scream. In the military he was taught not to show pain or weakness. Or told, more like. _It’s not really anything you can teach someone_ , John thought as the mountain of a man that Moriarty had sicced on him kicked his left kidney. _There’s no way for them to actually train you, to give you practical experience resisting the urge to cry out during the worst pain of your life. It’s in war that you learn who is weak and who is strong_. But in all his time as a doctor John had seen many painful injuries, and he had learned firsthand that sooner or later, everyone screamed. It was just a matter of how much pain a person could endure before he or she lost control.

                But, aside from his own pride, John had another motivator for not wanting to scream. He knew that every time he did, it would cause Sherlock more heartbreak, and every time Sherlock’s heart broke, Moriarty was getting exactly what he wanted. So John tried to resist, for as long as possible, crying out as he was being beaten to death. He was doing a pretty good job of it, too; that was, until the murderous giant stomped on his right knee, crushing it with a sickening _crunch_. He screamed endlessly, the pain blinding him, only dimly aware that Sherlock was banging on the glass in a fervor and shouting “Stop! Stop!”

                John vomited from the pain and tried to catch his breath, while Moriarty’s gargantuan minion paced back and forth in front of him, waiting for him to recover so that he could inflict further pain without John passing out (at Moriarty’s instruction, probably—John doubted that the brute had enough sense to be so smart, or enough malice to be so cruel). He looked up from the ground and the pool of sick that was soaking through his shirtsleeves to see Sherlock on his knees, his face contorted in fear and anguish. “John,” he said weakly, and, clearly not knowing what else to say, said it again: “John.”

                John saw the giant move in his direction, getting ready for the next blow. “Look away, Sherlock,” he managed to say, his voice hoarse. “Don’t watch. Close your eyes, don’t—“

                But Sherlock did not close his eyes, and the beast kicked John in the left kidney again, and John screamed once more.

                “Stop it!” Sherlock yelled frantically in reply, his voice cracking with emotion. “Stop! I’ll do anything!” he pleaded. “Please, please…. I’ll do whatever you want.”

                “I already told you,” said Moriarty, licking his lips. “ _This_ is what I want.” He nodded towards his murderous crony, and the man kicked John in the stomach.

                John spewed blood, coughing. He didn’t care about not screaming, anymore. And then he became silent as the blows came faster; he was in so much pain he couldn’t even catch his breath.

                Moriarty seemed to realize what was happening. “Stop!” he yelled. “Let him breathe. He hasn’t got long left, I’m afraid.” He looked genuinely disappointed.

                John turned his head upward, as much as his ebbing strength would allow, and stared at Sherlock through puffy, bloodshot eyes; Sherlock, who was kneeling with his hands and face pressed against the glass chamber, the bottom of his black overcoat wrinkled on the ground around him, and crying _hard_. It was not the pretty, porcelain-faced, one-tear-at-a-time crying that John had seen before. It was red-faced, broken-featured, downright ugly crying. _Sobbing_ , John thought. _The very definition._

                John wanted to hug him. He wanted to get up, step outside the glass and hug him, tell him everything was okay, run his hands through his hair, turn his face up and wipe the tears away, kiss his lips— _What?_ John thought wildly. _Kiss him? I want that?_

_Oh my God._

                John felt the breath leave him again, but for a different reason than before.

_I want that._

                He tried to speak, but no sound would come out of him. _I have to tell him_ , he thought, desperately. _I have to tell him before it’s too…_ He tried again, but it was no use. His voice wasn’t working anymore. He couldn’t even whisper.

                “Now, I’d hate to add insult to injury,” Moriarty cooed from the deck, standing up and straightening his jacket, “but… Oh, who are we kidding, of course I would!” He giggled and looked over at Mary, then turned back to the window. His expression suddenly became very solemn. “John, you know how they say that when you die, the last thing you’ll see will be your children’s faces? Well, I’m dreadfully sorry to have to tell you, but in your case, you’ll have nothing to see at all.”

                John turned his confused gaze back toward the criminal.

                “You see, Annalise isn’t actually your daughter,” Moriarty continued, the shadows of his face growing deeper as his grin widened under the hanging florescent lights. “She’s _mine_.”

                Suddenly, the door to the outer room was blown clear off its hinges and twenty armored police poured in, shouting. _“The deck! The deck! Open fire!”_ Bullets pelted the observation deck’s windows, and Moriarty and Mary could no longer be seen. The mountain man escaped through the floor entry of the inner glass room and locked the door behind him.

                “John!” Sherlock stood up as soon as the bullets subsided, scrambling around the glass cage, running his hands on it, looking for seams, for some way to open it.

                “Sherlock, hurry up!” It was Lestrade, he’d flipped up his face shield and was running toward them.

                Sherlock ignored him, shouting to John instead. “I’m going to get you out of there, John! It’s going to be alright.”

                “Sherlock, listen to me,” urged Lestrade as Sherlock frantically sought something to break the glass. “We found a bomb under this room, the whole building is rigged to blow. Moriarty must have done it as a Plan B, if things went wrong.”

 _“Fifty seconds, and counting!”_ a voice buzzed on Lestrade’s radio.

                “Copy that,” he said into the radio. “Pull back all units, I repeat, _get the hell out of there!_ ”

                Sherlock was attempting to break the glass with a piece of metal piping that had fallen from the blast hole, but the attempt was clearly a fruitless one. Lestrade saw that, and must have realized that Sherlock was not going to open the cage, or break it, or in any way retrieve John before the bomb went off. He stared through the glass and into John’s weary, swollen eyes.

 _Remember what you promised_ , John thought at him.

                It had been earlier, when they were gearing up for the raid. Sherlock had been off across the way, verbally abusing Anderson for not setting up the surveillance cameras correctly, and John had pulled Lestrade aside. “If something goes wrong,” he’d muttered, low and close to the Detective Inspector’s ear, “promise me you’ll protect him.”

                “But John—“

                “Please,” John had stared him right in the eye. “The world needs Sherlock Holmes. It does not need me.”

                “But—“

                “Please, Greg. Promise me.”

                Lestrade had sighed and nodded, looking entirely reluctant in his agreement. “Alright, John. I promise.”

 _Well,_ John thought now, gazing at Lestrade from the floor _, you have about forty-five seconds to keep that promise._

                “Sherlock, we have to go,” said Lestrade, stone-faced.

                “You go,” Sherlock shouted wildly. “I’m not leaving without John.”

                Lestrade took a deep breath. “Oh, bloody hell.” He reached into his side pocket and pulled out a taser gun. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

                Sherlock spun around just as the taser hit him, sending him to the ground in convulsions. Lestrade again glanced over to where John was laying, and John tried to give him a reassuring look. Lestrade nodded once, lifted Sherlock’s body over his shoulder, and hurried to the exit without another look back.

                And just as the two of them cleared the doors and escaped into the parking lot, the building exploded.


	4. Prologue

                This was going to be awkward. Confronting Sherlock about anything was an art in and of itself, but confronting him about this? John shivered. It was going to be a mess.

                He’d planned to do it after he’d met with Sherlock’s parents, he really had, but Mary had discouraged him on the ride home. “Don’t do this,” she’d said. “We’ve finally gotten to a good place, you and I. We’re happy in our little life together, with our daughter, in our home. It’s peaceful, it’s normal. And we love each other, John. Neither of us is perfect, but we’ve learned to live with that.”

                John had studied her, confused. “I know all that,” he’d said slowly.

                “So don’t go messing it all up just because of _him_. It is what it is, just leave it be. Please. For me.” Mary’s eyes had filled with tears. Then, she added quietly, “For our family.”

                John was bewildered by her reaction; she seemed scared, of all things. Scared of what? That John loved Sherlock, too? That Sherlock had some power over John that could make him leave her and their daughter? Was she crazy? John had thought that she was being most ridiculous, and told her so.

                But the visit with Sherlock’s parents continued to haunt him, and, despite Mary’s wishes, he knew he had to say something. For a few weeks he tried to find a good time to do it, but, for one reason or another, he kept making excuses not to:

                “Sherlock’s too into this case to pay attention.”

                “Sherlock’s too on edge today to have a thoughtful conversation.”

                “I didn’t sleep well last night (the baby, you know), and I can’t focus the way I should do. I’ll take a nap, we’ll talk tomorrow.”

                But John had been avoiding it for long enough. So, on a chilly Saturday morning, he took a taxi to Baker Street with the intention of finally having it out with his ( _potentially,_ John told himself) enamored best friend. He tried to come up with what he’d say on the ride over, but everything he thought up sounded either insensitive or downright ridiculous. _Eh, I’ll just wait until I’m there_ , John thought. _I do better under pressure, anyway. Right?_

                As John ascended the stairs of 221B, he heard Mrs. Hudson complaining. “Oh Sherlock, you really should tidy up now and then. The flat was never this disastrous when John lived here….I mean, it was a disaster of course, but nothing like this.” And then, just as John was just about to knock on the door, he heard her suddenly exclaim, “Oh Sherlock, how could you let John do it?”

                John stopped in his tracks and held his breath as he eavesdropped.

                “Let him do what, Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock’s voice asked in a monotone, bored sort of way.

                “Let him marry someone _else_.”

                John rolled his eyes. Mrs. Hudson was always going on about how Sherlock and John were a couple—for God’s sake, John had been married for over a year. Couldn’t she finally give it a rest?

                “Oh, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock replied, his voice deep and knowing, “I simply 'let' him get it out of his system. I am perfectly content to wait until he has.”

                _What?_

                John’s eyebrows folded over as he realized that Sherlock hadn’t actually addressed the most disturbing part of the question, the “else.” “Marry someone _else_ ,” as in, someone besides Sherlock. Did that… did that mean that Sherlock… that he wanted to… that he was waiting for…

                What was he waiting for? For John and Mary to break up? _Improbable_. For John to suddenly be attracted to men? _Impossible._ Even if he was attracted to men, to want Sherlock… in that way…

 _Bugger_ , John thought. _Now I really_ _do_ _have to talk to him._

                John tiptoed back down the stairs and waited a few more moments before running up again, making sure to pound his feet as he went. He knocked heavily on the door and burst through without waiting for an invitation. “Good morning Mrs. Hudson,” he said, cheerily. “Morning, Sherlock.”

                Sherlock was at the kitchen table, perched over his microscope, a plate of fresh biscuits next to his pile of slides. He didn’t look up. “John.”

 _Does he know?_ John thought, staring at the top of Sherlock’s curly head. _Does he know that I heard?_ John felt sick, all of a sudden _._ “Erm,” he began, “Sherlock, can I have a word?”

                “Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said, from the viewfinder, “you’d better go and bake us some more biscuits.”

                Mrs. Hudson blinked. “You’ve got plenty there on the plate, why do you need—“

                In a flash, Sherlock reached forward and pushed the entire plate off the table. It shattered and sent the biscuits flying across the floor. “It seems as though they’ve all been ruined,” Sherlock went on, settling back into his chair. Mrs. Hudson didn’t move, and he glanced up. “Well? Don’t just stand there gaping about!”

                The landlady snapped her jaw closed and muttered some highly disturbing insults under her breath as she stomped out of the flat and slammed the door shut.

                John shook his head after her retreating figure. “You know, you could have just asked her to leave.”

                “Yes,” Sherlock said, replacing his current slide with a new one. “But then she would have just listened outside the door.”

                John’s eyes widened in panic. _Was that a reference to…?_ Sherlock didn’t look up, and John couldn’t tell for sure.

                “So, what was it you wanted to discuss?”

                John swallowed, looking around the kitchen. His gaze rested on the countertop, where there were various lengths of human hair taped over the edge, it a row. It was not inspiring. “Erm, I…” He cleared his throat—and lost his nerve. “I was hoping you had some new developments in the search for Moriarty,” he said, letting his breath out in relief. “Anything to report?”

                Sherlock looked up, studying him for a moment. “As a matter of fact, yes,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “Apparently, Mycroft has traced his current whereabouts to an abandoned cosmetic testing facility, just outside the city. He’s ordered a raid for Monday evening.” Sherlock picked up a manila envelope that had been resting under the late biscuit plate and leafed through the contents before pulling out a photograph. “But Mycroft has informed me that he would like you and I to go in, first. Some top secret government conspiracy something-or-other.” Sherlock waved dismissively. “I told him I was not his errand boy, I would not cater to his every whim.”

                John raised his eyebrows. “But we’re doing it, yes?”

                “Naturally,” Sherlock said, handing him the photo. “I may not be an errand boy, but neither do I pass up opportunities to have my brother owe me a favor.” He smirked. “And judging by the desperation in his voice when he asked me, I surmise the favor will be a rather large one.”

                John looked down at the photograph, which showed an ornate silver key resting on a blue velvet cloth. “Royal artifact?” he asked.

                “No, actually,” Sherlock answered, coming to stand behind him and looking at the picture. “I always keep tabs on the important artifacts that go missing. No, this is something I’ve never heard of. And we have to find it, in that facility, before the police go in for their raid.”

                “This?” John asked skeptically, looking back at the picture. “This is what he wants us to retrieve?”

                “Apparently,” Sherlock hummed.

                John was silent for a moment, his brain tingling with curiosity. “I wonder what it is?”

                “I haven’t the faintest,” Sherlock said, swiping the photo out of John’s hands and holding it up for a better look. “But it’s important enough that Mycroft only trusts _us_ to bring it back. He does not want the public, nor even the police force, to know we’re looking for it.” Sherlock smirked again. “I wonder if he even wants the government to know.” He let that thought rest in the air for a moment with the photograph, then swiftly stuck it back in the envelope and sat back in front of his microscope. “So," he said, placing his elbows on the table and folding his hands in front of his chin. “You’ll be there? Monday evening?”

                “What? Yeah,” John said, puzzled. “Yeah, of course I’ll be there.”

                Sherlock drummed his fingertips against each other. “Mary doesn’t mind?”

                John huffed a laugh. “Honestly, Mary is so preoccupied with… whatever it is she’s working on, right now, that I doubt she’ll even notice I’m gone.”

                “Trouble in paradise?”

                John felt a flare of anger. The _“I am perfectly content to wait,”_ comment began to ring about in his head. “No! No, nothing like that. We’re fine. Great. I mean, we’re great. Very much in love. Couldn’t be happier.” _Ugh_ , John thought. _So much for doing well under pressure_.

                Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Okay,” he replied slowly, as if he didn’t believe a word of what John had said.

                John almost blew up, then. He almost yelled that he’d heard what Sherlock said to Mrs. Hudson, and that Sherlock was utterly stupid if he’d fallen in love with John, if he was waiting for John’s marriage was to fall apart so that he could have a go, because John would never, ever, in a million years, love him back. Ever.

                But John knew he couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t. Because if Sherlock’s parents had been right, if he hadn’t loved anyone like this before, then that love must be extremely powerful, to have broken through to his heart. John knew what it was like, to have a force like that in one’s life. Mary had been that, for him. It was a force that could build a person up, but it could also destroy, if taken away.

                And the last thing John wanted to do was destroy Sherlock Holmes.

                “Monday,” he said instead, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. “I’ll be there.”


	5. Prologue

                Sherlock stumbled toward the nearest van, his muscles still not quite recovered from being tasered. “ _Sherlock,” “Sherlock,”_ he kept hearing, but he didn’t know who was speaking. He didn’t care. Nothing mattered now, nothing at all; John was dead.

                “I’m sorry, mate.” He heard Lestrade’s voice close and quiet in his ear, felt him put a hand on his arm. _An attempt to comfort? Is that what that is? From Lestrade, the backstabber, the betrayer—_

                Sherlock spun around and punched Lestrade in the face.

                At least, he aimed for the face. Aimed for the nose, Lestrade’s wretched little nose, right in the center of his stupid head. But Sherlock’s motor skills weren’t all back to normal, and he ended up clipping Lestrade’s chin, sending him spinning clockwise to the ground.

                Hands were on him, restraining. “Sherlock! Sherlock, look at me.” His eyes left Lestrade as the hands turned him around and Mycroft’s face swam into view.

                “Mycroft…” he choked, his tears spilling over in lines down his face. Mycroft’s expression was soft, the softest Sherlock had ever seen it.

                “I know, Sherlock,” he said gently. “I know, baby brother.”

                At that, Sherlock crumpled forward into his chest. Mycroft supported the unexpected weight, awkwardly putting his arm round the back of his brother’s neck. Sherlock sobbed into his shoulder, sobbed as he hadn’t done since he was a child, with heaving breaths and loud, anguished wails of “ _John_ ” and “ _No_ ” and other, incomprehensible noises. Mycroft looked a bit awed by it, but nevertheless held him, murmuring “Shhh,” and “There, there.” He tried to pretend he didn’t see the shocked and pity-filled expressions of Lestrade and the police crew standing around them.

                When Sherlock’s sobs faded, Mycroft led him over to the van and sat him down on the back bumper. He bent down and put his hands on Sherlock’s arms, holding him upright. “Sherlock, I need you to tell me,” he said, his voice stern—all business now. “Did you get the key?” Sherlock’s head bobbed, clearly thinking about other things. “ _Did you get the key_?” Mycroft iterated, pushing Sherlock farther upright so that their eyes met.

                Sherlock looked at him, bewildered that anyone could be concerned with anything other than the fact that John had just been blown to bits. “I…” he began, his voice thick with crying. He whispered, as if not quite believing his own answer, “I gave it to John.”

                Mycroft’s expression hardened into disappointment and frustration. He let Sherlock go and stood up, pulling out his mobile to notify the British government that the raid had been a waste.

***

                “Sherlock.” A tentative voice, from several paces away.

                Sherlock did not want to speak to anyone. He’d continued to sit on the bumper with his head in his hands for some time, as the fire crew put out the blazing building. As soon as they gave the all-clear, he was going back in there to find John’s body. No one could stop him.

                “They’ve given us the ‘go.’” It was Lestrade, a fair distance away, probably so he’d have time to flee in case Sherlock decided to attack him again. “To go back in and… search.”

                Sherlock sat up. His neck felt stiff, his head heavier than normal, eyes puffy and crusted-over from crying.

                “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go back in there,” clarified the D.I., “but I figured you’d do it anyway. So I wanted to let you know. We can go in.”

                Sherlock let a beat pass, then stood up and marched toward the ruined building. “Come on,” yelled Lestrade to the crew. He sighed heavily as they hurried after the detective.

                Sherlock stepped carefully over the rubble from the building, through the entrance they’d escaped from a few hours earlier—or, where he thought the entrance had been. The building was so unrecognizable, he had to navigate back to the observation room based on his memory of the distance and direction it had been from the front of the building. He did it with ease, of course.

                He stopped when he reached the edge of the Room. A couple of I-beams stood sticking out of the ground where the observation deck had been. In front should have been the thick glass chamber where John was imprisoned.

                There was no glass.

                Sherlock froze. Perhaps Lestrade had been right, perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea. What had he expected to find? He had seen many dead bodies, even those that had been mutilated and burned, but he hadn’t seen the body of someone he cared about in that state. He hadn’t thought about how John would look—he just imagined pulling his (fully intact and recognizable) body from the rubble, cradling it, carrying it out in his arms.

                Sherlock swallowed. That’s most certainly not how it was going to go. But he was here now, and he had to look. To see. He started forward carefully, examining the rubble, shifting larger pieces to see underneath. He searched for several minutes with no luck, when a thought suddenly struck him: What if John escaped? What if he got out before the bomb exploded? What if he was alive? Sherlock’s heart leapt into his throat.

                And that’s when he saw John’s shirt.

                Or rather, what was left of John’s shirt. It was a small section of a two-ply piece, burnt and charred, a half-melted button on the end. _It must have been the cuff_ , Sherlock thought, his heart beating erratically as he bent down and carefully picked it up. He flipped it over in his fingers, his stomach turning. That cuff had been wrapped around John’s wrist—John, who he loved, who no longer existed—

                Sherlock dropped the piece of cloth as he felt the world start to dissolve, and he sank, weakly, to his knees. “All right,” said Lestrade, from out of nowhere. It hadn’t occurred to Sherlock that the rest of the police crew had been watching him. “That’s enough.”

***

                The sun began to rise, pretty flecks of pink and orange dotting the underside of the clouds, as Sherlock slid his key into the lock on the front door of 221B Baker Street. He turned the key, heard the familiar “click.” Turned the door knob. Opened the door. With one (heavy) foot in front of the other, he climbed up the steps, into his flat. Lumbered over to the fireplace, staring at the chairs in front of it. Turned to the left, collapsed in John’s chair. Ran his hands over the fabric on the arms. Smelled John’s scent, released from the upholstery.

                Footsteps sounded up the staircase; Mrs. Hudson’s. He heard her knock on the open door. “Sherlock?”

                He's hoped someone had told her, because he didn’t want to do it. Couldn’t. He turned to look at her; she knew (thank God). And, oh, she was holding a baby.

                Right, the baby. John and Mary’s baby. Mary must’ve had Mrs. Hudson sit while they all went gallivanting off to find Moriarty.

                _Shite,_ Sherlock thought. 

                “Sherlock,” said Mrs. Hudson, her worried eyes shining. The baby gummed her own fist and stared curiously at him, in the chair. “What are we going to do?”


	6. Part One: The Natural

                “Oh, goodness no, Sherlock doesn’t solve crimes anymore. Not like he used to, anyway.” Mrs. Hudson dried her hands on a dish towel and came to sit at the kitchen table.

                “When he first decided to raise Annalise, there was a lot for him to learn. He went out and bought all kinds of books, so when I wasn’t teaching him practical things like how to change a nappy,” she laughed a little to herself at the memory, “or mash up Anna’s carrots just right, he was reading. Trust Sherlock to think he could learn everything about being a parent from a book. I mean, books are ever so helpful, of course, but Sherlock treated them as his own personal canon law. He’d quote from them incessantly, it was incredibly annoying.”

                Mrs. Hudson stopped to gather her thoughts, then continued. “Anyway, for the first several months he was so occupied with learning about how to raise a baby that he didn’t even think about solving crimes. Mycroft sent him a significant stipend every month to help with finances, and Sherlock was so absorbed in studying how to be a parent that he didn’t realize what was happening when he started to go… a bit mad. Stir crazy, you know? Went off at every little thing, kept snapping at me for no reason at all… I finally lost my temper and told him he needed to go out, find a case to work on. He was offended that I even suggested it—but two days later, he was back out in the field.

                “He only did that one case,” said Mrs. Hudson, recalling the memory. “You remember McMurdo, the prize fighter? Well, he suffered a nasty injury and was forced to retire—lost an eye, if I remember correctly—and afterward, he started dealing steroids to the young, up-and-coming fighters. A reporter found out about it, and the poor fool got himself killed. McMurdo was afraid the reporter would expose him and ruin his reputation, you see. Beat him to death… it was quite horrid.” She shivered.

                “After Sherlock figured out what happened, he insisted on having a stake-out to confirm his theory that McMurdo was selling the drugs. He didn’t tell me until several days later, but apparently the ex-fighter caught him and nearly choked the life out of him. Luckily Scotland Yard got there just in time, but Sherlock seemed… I suppose the word is ‘traumatized.’ He came home that morning, burst into the flat with this frantic look on his face, I remember because I was feeding Anna at the table and we both froze right in our seats. He took one look at Annalise and she immediately put her arms in the air for him to pick her up—like she knew, you know? He held her tight for quite some time, and she let him, the lovely girl. Didn’t fuss, just rested there while he held her.” Mrs. Hudson’s eyes were shining, and she smiled through her tears.

                “After that, Sherlock decided he couldn’t go back to solving crimes. But he did need something to do, and he was tired of relying on Mycroft for all his spending money, so he went out and looked for a job. Can you imagine, Sherlock applying for jobs? The interviews?” Mrs. Hudson chuckled. “He was rubbish at it, of course. But one night Molly Hooper had us over for dinner, and he was complaining about his latest disastrous interview, and Molly said to him, ‘You should come to the morgue tomorrow morning—I’ll get you a job, no problem.’ So that’s what he did. He went down to St. Bart’s and Molly trained him to help with the autopsies. It’s a bit boring for him, I’m afraid, but he hardly ever complains. He stopped going to crime scenes, stopped putting himself in all that danger… I suppose he thought it was all worth it for little Anna.”

                Mrs. Hudson wiped her eyes. “It’s quite a thing, how he loves that girl. I would never have thought him capable… but I was wrong, wasn’t I? All that time, he had it in him.” She smiled.

***

                “ _Sherlock!”_

                Annalise Watson yelled from the kitchen, staring at her ruined science project on the counter. “Bloody hell,” she swore. It was supposed to be a project on the effects of sunlight on plant growth: she’d stuck one plant in a closet and one in the windowsill, and then taken pictures every day for a week. Okay, she had to agree with him, it was a little juvenile for a thirteen-year-old girl, but _this_?

                “SHERLOCK!” she shouted, louder.

                Sherlock popped his head out from behind his bedroom door. “Is there a good reason you’ve woken me up with all that shouting?” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes. “I certainly hope so.”

                “My science project!” She looked at him, her dark eyes wide in incredulity. “You’ve ruined it!”

                “Ruined it!?” Sherlock flung the bedroom door open wide and glided over to the counter, his dressing gown billowing behind him. “If by that you mean, ‘Drastically improved it to the point where not only has it saved me from receiving failing marks and flunking out of school (thus destroying my future), but it will also be the most interesting and exceptional project that the school has ever seen, and everyone will—‘“

                “—will think I’m completely disgusting!” Anna finished for him. “‘The Biodegrading Effects of Sunlight on Inanimate Flesh?’ Sherlock, they’re going to think I’m loony if I bring rotten human fingers to school. God, the fair is in the cafeteria. Where we _eat_. I’ll be suspended!”

                Sherlock furrowed his brow. “Good point. But the project you did was far below your intelligence level.”

                Anna sighed. “I don’t care. I _loathe_ science.”

                “Nonsense,” said Sherlock, dismissively. He walked over to the dust bin. “You just haven’t found your field.” He pulled her project out of the bin, eyeing it with disappointment. “Which is clearly not biology.”

                Anna’s mouth fell open. “You threw it in the _rubbish?_ ”

                Sherlock did a double-take at the bin, feigning ignorance. “No idea how it got there! Must have been Mrs. Hudson, the cruel woman.” He brushed some crumbs off the poster, wrinkling his nose.

                “Anna! Sherlock! Time for morning tea!” Mrs. Hudson came up the steps with the tray.

                “Cruel woman, indeed,” muttered Anna. Sherlock leapt past her to the safety of Mrs. Hudson’s presence.

                “Good morning, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, taking the tray from her.

                “Hello, dear,” replied the landlady, smiling. She went over to Anna, moving much slower in her old age. “And what have you got there, love?”

                “It’s just my stupid science project." Anna tried to re-stick the wilting cut-out titles back onto the board, but to no avail.

                “It’s lovely, darling,” said Mrs. Hudson, putting an arm around her. “Top marks, I’m sure of it!”

                Anna glanced over her shoulder to send a look Sherlock’s way, and he pretended to be very interested in the teapot. “I hope so,” she said.

                “I hope so, too,” Sherlock added. “Your marks cannot afford—“

                Anna groaned. “Can we please stop talking about my bloody marks? Please? Can’t I just have one morning where I leave here without feeling like a complete idiot?”

                “Of course you can,” Sherlock told her, stirring some milk into his tea. “When your marks improve.”

                Anna scowled and muttered something under her breath, something that most definitely included the word “wanker.”

                “Annalise Watson!” Sherlock dropped the teaspoon on the tray in frustration. “We’ve discussed the _language_. I will not have such profanity in this—“

                “I know, I know,” Anna sighed, coming over to grab a cuppa. “I just can’t help it, sometimes. You bring it out in me.” She gave Sherlock a wry smile as she took a sip.

                Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. “If you don’t obey me, I may just have to ground you.”

                Anna snorted and drained her teacup. Mrs. Hudson giggled as well, from the kitchen. “What?” Sherlock asked. “What are you all laughing at?”

                Anna chuckled again. “Goodbye, Sherlock. I’ll see you after school.” She grabbed her pack, then (with a groan) her project, and headed down the stairs. As she left, she heard Sherlock give Mrs. Hudson another “What?”

                “Oh, Sherlock,” the landlady chided in reply. “When has grounding Anna ever done anything?”


	7. Part One: The Natural

                To Anna’s great luck, Sherlock had to work late that night. She had two whole hours before he came home, and from the moment he texted her to let her know, she had decided to make good use of that time listening to music. “Going to the void,” Sherlock called it; once she got sucked in to an album, she checked out of the real world and entered some private dimension inside her own head. She became completely internal, unreachable—which Sherlock, though he could understand it (maybe more than anyone else could), hated with a passion, because it meant she wouldn’t respond to him. “Don’t bother, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock would growl with displeasure from over his laptop, if, during such times, the landlady yelled to her up the stairs with some question or another. “She’s gone to the void.”

                Anna could spend hours there, if she was uninterrupted. _Two hours today, to be exact_ , she thought to herself as she raced up the steps of 221B. She dropped her backpack on the ground as soon as she passed through the front door, flopped on the couch with a satisfying “ _Ah_ ,” and reached over to grab her laptop from the coffee table. She settled back into the cushions and opened the screen—

_Knock knock._

                Anna groaned internally as she watched Mycroft Holmes slink through the front door without waiting for permission to enter. “Good afternoon, Annalise,” he greeted. His puckered face noted his irritation at her backpack lying in the middle of the floor, directly in his path. “Eager to shed the memory of the school day, were we?” he commented, snidely.

                Anna wondered whether or not Mycroft could ever say anything _without_ being snide. “Sherlock’s not home,” she told him, looking back at her laptop. “Want me to tell him you stopped by?”

                “Actually,” replied Mycroft, twirling his closed umbrella in his hand before leaning it next to the door, “I came to speak with _you_. And we have exactly,” he checked his watch, “one hour and fifty three minutes before Sherlock returns, so we’d best begin.”

                Anna raised her eyebrows. She had always been a little wary of Mycroft, but she couldn’t really be blamed for that. She’d grown up in Sherlock’s care, and the way Sherlock talked about him, she really should have been much more than “a little wary” of the elder Holmes. She didn’t bother asking how he knew Sherlock’s schedule; Sherlock, for certain, hadn’t told him. It was just one of those things, like many others, that Mycroft always knew.

                “Ahem… brought you a little something,” said the man, attempting a smile (which resulted in his looking slightly constipated). Mycroft’s way of interacting with Anna involved bringing her a gift every time he came over. She didn’t mind, of course, but it was a little bizarre—as if Mycroft was so far out of his element around children that he thought the only way they would tolerate him would be with a gift in their hands. He made a show of stepping around the backpack, then walked up to the sofa and reached into his jacket to pull out a small box. “A little birdie told me you’ve become quite the music lover,” he explained. Anna knew that little “birdie” was Sherlock, and she also knew that Sherlock probably hadn’t described her music habit in such gentle terms. He’d probably been complaining about it, which gave Mycroft the perfect excuse to get Anna a gift that would drive Sherlock up the wall.

                She opened up the box to reveal a very nice pair of headphones.

                “I think you’ll find that they provide, what was it the lad said…” Mycroft stuck his nose in the air, “a ‘deep, resonating bass.’”

                Anna smiled and plugged them into her computer. “Thanks, I’m excited to use them,” she said, hoping he'd take the hint. 

                Mycroft, of course, ignored it. Instead he “hmmm’ed” in reply, then moved a nearby chair closer to the sofa and sat, crossing his legs. “I have something to discuss with you, Annalise, which is most delicate in nature. It pertains to the…" he paused, "... _circumstances_ , under which you came to exist.”

                Anna felt a prickle of annoyance—Mycroft could be so cryptic. “Okay… what’s that?”

                Mycroft cleared his throat and uncrossed his legs, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. _He actually looks a little concerned_ , she thought. “Perhaps the best course of action is to put it bluntly and follow up with questions afterward.” He took a breath. “Annalise, John Watson was not your father.”

                Anna stared at him.

                Mycroft waited a moment, for a reaction that never came. “Erm… did you… hear me?”

                Anna blinked, his voice jarring her out of her blank stare. “What?”

                He pursed his lips. “I do believe you heard me the first time, but I will repeat myself for effect: John Watson was not your biological father.”

                Anna’s mouth fell open, the shock of it making the hair bristle on her arms—and then she remembered to be wary. She shut her lips turned back to her computer. “I don’t believe you,” she said, without looking at him.

                Mycroft sighed and leaned over to shut her laptop screen. “Anna, this is no time for games. This only going to end one way: with you understanding that you’ve been lied to your entire life.” Anna felt her heart begin to beat faster, in spite of herself. “I apologize that this is so sudden and unexpected. I’m sure it’s quite a shock. To keep you from the truth, that was a choice Sherlock made when you were very young; and though I did not agree with it, I supported him.” He looked as if he’d become a martyr to do so.

                “S-some support,” reeled Anna. Her voice shook with anger, an anger that she knew was covering up something deeper, something much more painful. “Looks like you changed your mind.”

                Mycroft sighed again and sat back in his chair. “’To everything there is a season,’ as they say. I suppose there is a time for lies, but there is also a time for the truth…. And the time for truth is nigh.”

                Anna’s eyes immediately went to the picture Sherlock kept on the mantle, the one of her and John: she was a baby, barely four months old, and John was lifting her up above his head, and they were smiling at each other. It was her favorite picture of them together. “Not my father,” she breathed in echo. She stared at his grinning face in the photograph. “Did he know?” She looked back at Mycroft. “Did he know that he wasn’t…”

                Mycroft’s eyes softened. “No, not until just before he was killed.”

                Anna's mind raced. “So my mother lied to him.”

                Mary Watson was a touchy subject around the Holmeses—well, really, around anyone who had known her. Anna knew that she had betrayed John in some way, and it had resulted in his death, but that was about all she could get from anyone. Mary had disappeared, afterward, but to where, and why… Anna had stopped asking those questions a long time ago.

                “Yes, Anna. Your mother lied.” Mycroft’s expression was stony. “No surprise there.”

                Anna sat in silence for a moment, absorbing all of the information. She took a breath to speak, but Mycroft cut her off before she could start. “I’m assuming your next question will be, ‘Then who is my real father?’ To which I will respond, ‘That is the real reason I’m here.’” Mycroft crossed his legs again, and folded his hands in his lap. “Your father, most regrettably, is the man who _killed_ John Watson.”

                Anna’s mood changed from shocked to horrified. “What?” She sat up on the edge of the cushion, feeling slightly dizzy. “So… wait… my mother…”

                “Your mother was an ex-assassin who attempted to escape her murderous lifestyle and settle down in London under a false identity. Well,” Mycroft amended, “we certainly _thought_ that was what she was doing. As it turned out, she was really working for the most intelligent and sinister criminal this country has ever had the misfortune of knowing.”

                Anna swallowed. “My father.”

                “Precisely.”

                Anna sat back against the cushions. “Jesus Christ,” she swore. She suddenly felt like she was living in one of those crap telly shows Mrs. Hudson watched every afternoon.

                “Annalise, I know this is a lot of information,” Mycroft said, carefully. “But I need you to accept it, and move on. Because I must get to the present problem before Sherlock arrives home.”

                Anna took a deep breath and let it out slowly. _John Watson was not my father. My father is an evil criminal mastermind who killed John Watson. And my mother, who was an ex-assassin pretending to be in hiding, lied to John about the nature of my parentage. Got it_. “Okay,” she said, with more confidence than she felt. She gripped the sides of her seat.

                Satisfied, Mycroft reached into his other jacket pocket and pulled out a photograph. It was an old mug shot of a dark haired man in a cream-colored jacket, his large, brown eyes glaring menacingly into the camera as he smirked above the placard that showed his name and the date he was arrested.

                “Jim Moriarty,” Anna read, and stared back at his face. He looked incredibly wicked. And like _her_. She’d always wondered where she’d got her dark features.

                “This is an old photograph, taken many years before John died. Moriarty managed to escape going to prison, that time.” Mycroft’s face soured at the memory. “After the fiasco with John, we hadn’t seen any trace of him… but I suppose it was too much to hope he’d blown himself up, too. Unfortunately, he’s been spotted back in London, and he’s amassing resources. We’re not sure why he’s here or what he’s planning, but whatever it is, it is not going to be to the benefit of the English population.”

                Anna swallowed. “Do you think he will come after me?”

                “I would say it is extremely likely, Annalise. He knows that you are his daughter—he’s the one who told us in the first place—and he hates Sherlock desperately. He made it his mission long ago to destroy Sherlock’s life... which is why he killed John, of course. It only makes sense that he would come after you.”

                Anna felt herself begin to shiver, though it wasn’t cold. She folded her arms over each other and gathered herself. “Sherlock will protect me,” she said. 

                Mycroft suddenly looked very tired. “Don’t you think that Sherlock tried to protect John, too? Of course he did. But he still couldn’t save him.”

                Anna felt her eyes sting with tears. “So, what is it, then?” she asked, suddenly angry. “Why are you telling me this? So I’ll be afraid? So I’ll have to constantly watch my back, waiting for him to come snatch me off the street?”

                “Precisely the opposite,” answered Mycroft. "We want you to go after him.”

                Anna’s tears dried up, forgotten in her awe. “Me? What am I supposed to do? I’m just a child.”

                Mycroft looked at her a moment, with a sort of bored expression that only a Holmes could make. “First of all,” he said, as if it was unbearably tedious for him to explain himself, “you are the child of a highly intelligent criminal and an extremely clever ex-assassin, raised by a man who has the most brilliant problem-solving mind in all of England. That is not ‘just’ a child. Second, you have an advantage in that, because you are _Moriarty’s_ child, you may hold some sort of emotional advantage over him—and we need every advantage we can get. Third, you have the motivation to go after him: not only is he coming for you, but he’s made Sherlock’s life utter hell ever since he arrived on the scene—and will most likely continue in that vein. And you love Sherlock, I presume?”

                “’Course I do,” said Anna, suddenly fierce.

                Mycroft nodded. “I’m offering you the chance to help him. This is the first time we have ever had the opportunity to be one step ahead of Moriarty—with you as a spy, you could aid us in bringing him down from the inside.”

                “But…” said Anna hopelessly, “I… I don’t know anything about spying. I wouldn’t know what to do! I would mess everything up! He would figure it out!”

                “Nonsense. Of course we will train you on the technical aspects, but, my darling, you have a natural gift for deceit. To put it most indelicately, it’s in your blood. We can help you to access it, by letting you… ‘off your leash,’ so to speak, in a way that Sherlock always refused to do.”

                Anna stared at him, his words resonating somewhere inside her. She was rather good at lying. She’d always been good at it. Lying to Sherlock, especially, which was a feat accomplished by very few.

                “Trust me, Anna,” pushed Mycroft, “you will be good at this. No, you will be better than good. You will be brilliant." And Anna, who had never really felt like she was brilliant at anything before, felt a spark of desire to say “yes.”

                “Ok,” she agreed, breathlessly. “I’ll do it.”


	8. Part One: The Natural

                “I’m going to join a band,” Anna announced, once Sherlock had come home and plunked down in his chair with his newspaper. She was surfing the web on her laptop, and kept on as if nothing surprising had come out of her mouth. She heard the crinkle of the paper and saw Sherlock gaze suspiciously at her over top of it.

                After she’d agreed to be part of Mycroft’s plan, he told her she needed to come up with an excuse to be gone after school for “spy” training. Her immediate thought was to tell Sherlock she was going to join Science Club—he’d be so thrilled that he’d completely overlook any of his suspicions. She’d thought it was a brilliant plan, until Mycroft pointed out that she had, on multiple occasions, spoken of her extreme distaste of all things science, and had absolutely no skill for any of it whatsoever. _“What will you do when he asks you to procure proof of your involvement? If he asks you to conduct in an experiment? He will find out you’re lying, Anna.”_

                She had known Mycroft was right.

                The band had been his idea—she loved music and played the fiddle (all those lessons Sherlock forced on her would finally pay off), so it would be a much easier transition into a lie than “Science Club.” _“A good lie starts with the truth,”_ Mycroft had told her. That was lesson #1 in “Mycroft Holmes’ School of Deception.” _“Pick something true, then tweak it just a little; just enough so that it suits your purposes but not enough to lose track of the lie.”_

                Though she knew she could do it, Anna didn’t want to lie to Sherlock. But, as Mycroft had logically explained, Sherlock would never give his consent to let her spy on Moriarty. _“And this will be good practice for you,”_ he’d added. _“You’ll be lying to Moriarty soon enough—may as well have a go with someone you know, first.”_

                Anna shivered at the thought of lying to Moriarty; it was a frightening prospect that she was in no way ready for. Getting caught in a lie by Sherlock would result in shouting and pale-eyed glaring and attempted grounding, but getting caught in a lie by Moriarty would most likely result in her death.

                “A… band?” echoed Sherlock. “Playing your violin?”

                “Fiddle,” she corrected. Sherlock played the violin, she fiddled (violin was so _boring_ ).

                “And who’s in this band with you?” he quizzed.

 _“What if he asks me who else is in the band? What will I say?”_ she had asked Mycroft.

 _“Well, you have several options. You could make up fictitious people, or you could use real people but fake that they’re in the band with you. Alternatively,”_ Mycroft had said, _“you could actually join a band.”_

                Anna had stared at him.

_“Think carefully about it, Anna. Sherlock must always satisfy his curiosity, and he is very protective of you. He will want to meet all of your fellow band mates and probably their parents. If he even slightly suspects that you are lying to him, he will check up on you by calling each one of them, or follow you after school himself. Your best course of action is to actually join a band.”_

                “ _But… how am I supposed to practice in a band and learn to be a spy at the same time?”_

 _"That’s simple,”_ Mycroft had said. _“We’ll hire the band members and their families. Anytime Sherlock tries to check up on you, he’ll get one of our hired hands to mollify him. Of course, you will have to practice with them a couple of times a week so that you’ll have something to show for it. Maybe even a public performance or two, now and then.”_ He’d started making a mental list.

 _“’Gig,’”_ Anna had corrected, absentmindedly. She was wary about this plan—so many things could go wrong. Really, what it came down to was her ability to lie; the better she was at it, the less suspicious Sherlock would be. _“They’re called ‘gigs,’ not performances.”_

 _“As you like,”_ Mycroft had said with a frozen smile, none too happy about being corrected.

                “A couple of guys, David and Sam, and a girl Heidi who just transferred to my school,” she related. “I’m sure you’ve heard me talk about them…” she looked at Sherlock, and acted as if she was put-out that he hadn’t been listening to her.

                Sherlock looked a bit puzzled. “I don’t believe you’ve mentioned them before…” he trailed off, and raised his newspaper back to his face. “Well, I’ll be meeting each of them, of course.”

 _“When he asks you to meet them, don’t agree right away. He’ll know you were waiting for it, which implies you’ve been thinking about how to counter his reactions, which implies deceit,”_ Mycroft had told her.

                “Ugh!” Anna grunted and threw her head emphatically against the back of the sofa. “Why do you always have to do this? Why can’t I just have friends without you having to analyze every one of them?”

                “Don’t be absurd, Anna,” said Sherlock, turning the page. “If you’re going to be spending time with them every weeknight, I have every right to want to meet them.”

                Anna sighed. “You can meet them, but you’re not allowed to _deduce_ them, alright? Not even in your head,” she added, and Sherlock pursed his lips. “You always get that creepy look on your face, when you do it in your head.”

                “I do not!” Sherlock huffed.

                Anna dropped her laptop on the couch and stood up, with her feet together and her hands behind her back. She stuck her chin in the air, and narrowed her eyes at him, imagining that she was burning his own with laser-sight.

                “That’s most certainly not how I look,” Sherlock argued. He popped up from the chair and stood in front of her. “It’s more like this.” He proceeded to match Anna’s expression, except every so often he tilted his head slightly, still keeping her gaze.

                “You’re basically doing exactly what I just did,” Anna told him.

                “Annalise, that is a paradox,” Sherlock informed her. “I cannot ‘basically’ and ‘exactly’ be doing something. And anyway, I’m not doing what you did,” he said. “I’m actually deducing things.”

                Anna began to mirror his head movements, attempting to keep a straight face. “And _exactly_ what are you deducing?”

                Sherlock lowered his head, staring at her from under his eyebrows. She did the same. “That you are trying not to laugh.”

                “Not true,” she denied.

                “True, indeed. The corners of your mouth are twitching up—you’re about to giggle. And I’m going to make you.”

                “No, you’re not.”

                “I really am. I’m going to do The Smile.”

                “You wouldn’t dare.”

                In response, Sherlock stretched his lips up wide in that grotesquely forced smile of his that showed every single one of his teeth.

                Anna giggled, unable to help herself. “You bastard.”

                Sherlock stopped the grin and scolded her. “Annalise, we’ve discussed the—“

                “Sorry, ‘You _dummy_.’”

                “—name-calling,” Sherlock finished. Anna stuck her tongue out at him, and he gave her a disapproving look.

                “So, anyway,” Anna asked, “do I have permission? To be in the band?”

                Sherlock sighed. “I suppose. But your marks still have to improve. This can’t interfere with your studies—and if it does, no more band.”

                “Deal,” she said, and smiled at him, not quite believing how easy that just was.

***

                “Of course it was easy, you’re a natural,” said Mycroft dismissively, a few days later at their first “spy” meeting. Anna felt a little guilty for being so pleased with the praise. She really shouldn’t feel good about being an excellent liar… but she couldn’t help it. Of course she had to give some credit to the people that Mycroft had hired as her band mates; they were naturals as well, or at least highly trained. They were several years older than her, but all looked young for their ages, and knew how to act like awkward teenagers. And they’d all gotten past Sherlock’s inquisition—which, to Anna’s surprise, wasn’t much of an inquisition at all. He’d done nothing but introduce himself and politely ask which instrument they’d played. Her complaint must have had more effect than she originally thought.

                “But lying to Moriarty is going to be much more difficult,” Mycroft continued. “And in the event that you are caught in a lie, you need to know how to defend yourself. So, we are going to start with defense training.”

                Anna was a little disappointed. She expected to be taught how to use crazy gadgets, dress up in disguises, that sort of thing. Spy stuff. James Bond. But she supposed that learning how to use weapons was part of that. “Do I get my own gun?” she asked.

                Mycroft smirked. “No guns for you, I’m afraid. Not yet, anyway.” He registered her disappointment. “Anna, you need to think about the situation you’ll be in. You’ll be playing the role of Moriarty’s daughter, not his hired assassin. I highly doubt you’ll be given a gun. If anything, you’ll probably have a company of armed guards following you when Moriarty’s not there. Maybe even when he _is_ there.” Mycroft paused to let her think about it. “If a situation arises where you need to escape, you probably won’t have any weapons in hand.” And then Mycroft looked over her shoulder, subtly nodding once.

                In an instant, Anna felt two muscular arms grab her from behind in a strong, incapacitating hold. She was so surprised that she shrieked and tried to squirm away, which caused the arms to hold her tighter. She looked wildly at Mycroft, blood pounding in her ears.

                Mycroft was extremely calm as he watched her struggle. “What just happened, Anna? Tell me everything.”

                Anna tried to find her voice. “I—I was attacked,” she said breathlessly. The arms still held her tightly.

                Mycroft shook his head and tutted. “Annalise, you have a much better memory and powers of observation than that. Calm yourself and tell me, what just happened?”

                Anna managed to slow her breathing and think. “I was standing here, talking with you, and someone grabbed me from behind,” she said. “And when I struggled, he grabbed me tighter.”

                “Good start. What else?” prompted Mycroft.

                “His… his arms are up high on me.” It was true, one was across her neck and the other across her chest. “So… he must be tall.” _And his arms are very muscular, so he’s got a lot of weight up high_ , she thought. _Top-heavy_. “I can feel his breath over my right shoulder, so I know his head is bent over there,” she went on.

                “Good,” praised Mycroft, his eyes alight. “Now what can you _do_?”

                Anna immediately thought about kicking the man between his legs. But, though she had a full range of motion from the waist down, she doubted she could kick that far backwards. She couldn’t move her arms up or her head over, so poking at his eyes or trying to head butt him (as if she knew how to do _that_ ) was out of the question. She looked helplessly at Mycroft. “I don’t know,” she said, upset.

                Mycroft watched her, patiently. “What’s here? What’s in the room?” he hinted.

                Anna looked around and caught a glimpse of a scrawny wooden table in her periphery, just a few paces back and to the right. A plan quickly formed in her mind. She drew both of her legs up and kicked out as hard as she could; the shock wave sent the attacker stumbling backward a pace. She kicked again. He stumbled back again, and then he tripped and fell backwards—right onto the table. It smashed with a satisfying _crunch_.

                In the distraction of the fall, one of the attacker’s arms came off of Anna. She didn’t waste any time; with her now free arm, she reached over and grabbed the nearest thing she could: one of the splintered table legs. Without thinking and without mercy, she flipped the sharp end inward and drove it into the attacker’s side.

                “Ugh!” the man yelled as the wooden spear pierced him. He released Anna completely and she stood up, spinning around to look at what she’d done. Mycroft was at the man’s side, calling for help, and several other people came into the room to tend to the attacker. Then Mycroft stood and grabbed her by the forearm to lead her out of the room.

                “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she chanted, white-faced, as Mycroft marched her down the hall to another, smaller room and closed the door behind them. “I didn’t know what I was… did I… I didn’t kill him? Oh my God, I didn’t mean—“

                But Mycroft was looking at her like he’d just won the lottery. She stuttered and stopped talking, watching his expression with puzzlement. “That was brilliant, Anna!” Mycroft praised. “You didn’t even have to learn. You did that on instinct.” He smiled. “This is going to be much easier than I first surmised.”

                Anna swallowed and wondered what had happened to her in there. She’d stabbed that man with no hesitation, even though she knew it was practice, that the man wasn’t an attacker but an employee of the British government, there to help teach her. Yet her instinct was to brutally stab him. A kill stab. She was capable of killing someone. The thought frightened her… but it also made her feel a bit powerful.

                Which frightened her all the more.

                “He’ll be fine, the wound was not deep. But next time, let’s try not to kill the help,” Mycroft reprimanded, slyly.

                Anna looked into his eyes, fear still pervading hers. “Is it always that easy?” she whispered. “To hurt people?”

                Mycroft’s expression turned serious. “For you, child, that causing pain to another is easy is an advantage. I implore you not to look at it any other way.” He studied her face, and went on. “The danger of the human conscience is that it can, occasionally, prevent us from greatness. And we need you to be great, Anna. It’s the only way we can destroy _him_. That’s what you must see, must see always—that no matter what you do, or what you become, it is for one purpose: to rid the world of a terrible enemy.” His eyes had a faraway look for a moment, but then he blinked and looked back at her.

                “Now,” he said with a thin smile, “Let us continue your training.”


	9. Part One: The Natural

                “She’s up to something,” Sherlock grumbled as he made the first incision into Mr. Thompson. The sixty-nine year-old, obese man had clearly died of a heart attack, but as Sherlock was reminded by Molly Hooper almost daily, determining the cause of death was not the only purpose of an autopsy. There needed to be examinations of internal organs and weights and lengths recorded and other such boring tasks to accomplish.

                Molly was standing on the other side of the body, clamping it open to give them more visibility. “What’s she doing?”

                Sherlock looked up at her. “She joined a _band_.”

                Molly smiled. “Well, good for her! It’s nice to see creativity in young people.” She grabbed another clip and went back to work. When he didn’t respond, she looked up again and sighed at his expression. “Sherlock, this is perfectly normal. She has friends. She enjoys music. Every little girl dreams of being a rock star at some point—what’s the matter with it?”

                “She’s over there every night! And there are… boys,” he muttered. He must have looked ridiculously infuriated, because he observed Molly using all of her bodily control to restrain herself from giggling.

                “Oh Sherlock, she’s thirteen—of course there are boys involved. Oh, it all makes perfect sense. But she’s a smart girl, and you have had ‘The Talk’ with her, haven’t you?”

                “’Talk?’” Sherlock hated when people used those sorts of pet names for things. “What talk?”

                Molly’s eyes widened. “The Talk. You know…about sex.”

                He blanched internally. _That can’t be something I have to_ … “What’s there to talk about?”

                Molly stared at him. “You know, about urges and condoms and babies and… well, what did your parents tell _you_?”

                Sherlock averted his eyes. “I don’t recall.”

                He really didn’t remember—didn’t think his parents had said anything to him about sex. What he remembered was being a little boy, probably five or six, and fighting with Mycroft about something or other. Their fights as children usually devolved to them trying to one-up the other, finding things that they knew that the other didn’t. On this particular occasion, Mycroft, being several years older, smirked in his little-boy way and had said, “You’re so stupid, you probably don’t even know what ‘sex’ is.”

                Sherlock hadn’t, but he didn’t want to let on. “’Course I do.”

                Mycroft’s smirk had grown. “Tell me, then.”

                Sherlock was trapped. “You only want me to tell you because _you_ don’t know!” he’d retorted, triumphantly.

                Mycroft had laughed. “You’ve used that one before, little brother. And it didn’t work that time, either.”

                That night, after the rest of his family had gone to bed, Sherlock had snuck out of his room and poured over all the dictionaries and encyclopedias, learning everything he could about the word “sex.” His parents had had nothing to do with it.

                Molly put down the scalpel she was holding. “Sherlock, she does know what sex _is_ , doesn’t she?”

                “Of course she knows,” he snapped. Sex was everywhere, and she was thirteen. It would have been impossible for her not to know. “I have not sheltered her from the realities of the world, not in the least.”

                Molly’s eyes softened. “Of course you haven’t. Well, you should still have someone to talk to her… someone with… erm… experience in the matter.”

                Sherlock wanted to ignore the slight—it wasn’t the first time he’d been assumed a virgin—but this time it had touched a nerve. “Are you offering?” he asked coolly. “If the lecturer needs a lengthy resume, who more fitting than Molly Hooper?”

                Molly blushed up to her ears. “That’s not very nice.”

                They eyed each other for a moment, and Sherlock finally gave in. “I apologize."

                “Apology accepted,” Molly said, begrudgingly.

                They went back to work.

                A few moments had passed when Molly spoke again. “I’ll still talk to her, if you like.”

                “Please do,” replied Sherlock immediately, handing her poor Mr. Thompson’s gall bladder.


	10. Part One: The Natural

                Anna progressed quickly through her training, which was no surprise to her after what Mycroft had predicted. She found that she had no fear of hurting other people, or herself, so she was able to master all of the physical tasks through sheer lack of concern for safety. Of course, Mycroft had taken great measures to ensure that there wouldn’t be a repeat of their first day: Anna was only allowed to fight with realpeople if there were no other items in the room. Although, that proved difficult as Anna was quite resourceful. She’d used everything from shoes to buttons to her own shirt to fight, often with highly damaging results. “A regular MacGyver,” Mycroft had called her, though she had no idea what that meant.

                In weapons training, Anna learned she’d rather fight with a knife than a gun. She was a good shot, but preferred close combat; she was smaller than all of her attackers and found it easy to maneuver quickly into unexpected spaces, taking them by surprise. A knife, too, was much lighter and easier to conceal than a gun—also a bonus for a smaller person. For practice they’d managed to procure a knife with a retractable blade, a “stage knife” used in movies and plays. That way, when Anna stabbed, the victim wouldn’t be wounded.

                As for espionage training, Anna found that though lying came easy, having to remember a pre-existing story was difficult. Often, Mycroft would give her an entire file on an alias, with names and dates and family history, and she’d have to memorize all of it in thirty minutes. She was awful at it. However, if she created the false identity through the act of lying, she found that she could remember every detail she made up. But it had to originate from her mind, and it had to happen in the moment—on the spot. This fact made Mycroft incredibly nervous; it meant that planning intricate lies ahead of time would not be an option. It was much riskier, but it would have to do.

                Band practice was another thing entirely. Anna had, at first, found it ridiculous that they had to practice at all. “All part of the lie, Annalise,” Mycroft had told her. “The more truth we put into it, the less we have to fake.” Anna was able to talk him down to one practice a week, however—at least, for her. The other members still had to be there on the other days, to answer the phone if Sherlock called. And to write songs, of course.

                During Anna’s first practice, she felt overwhelmed in a way that was very different from her spy training; she really wasn’t accustomed to hanging out with other people her age. Of course she talked to other students at school, but only in class. She didn’t gossip, she didn’t compare likes and dislikes, she didn’t hang out after school. She didn’t have friends.

                No one could say Sherlock hadn’t tried to give Anna a normal social life. It was one of the things that she used to overhear from both Molly and Mrs. Hudson as she was growing up; they’d constantly tell him, “Anna needs to interact with other children. She needs to build her social skills. She needs _friends_.” Sherlock would sigh at them and simply say, “I know.” He thought he’d turned out perfectly fine not having friends his entire childhood, of course, but most people didn’t think that way. John hadn’t thought that way. And Sherlock’s goal, as Anna was made never to forget, was to raise her the way John would have done.

                So he’d brought her to play-dates, and group outings, and field trips, he enrolled her in camps and sports. He traveled all over the city to bring her in contact with other children. The trouble was, on those so-called play-dates, Sherlock had to make small talk with the mothers and fathers there— _so_ much small talk. He was rubbish at it.

                And Anna felt the effects.

                The children didn’t really care, not when they were really small, but the parents cared. They cared that they had to endure Sherlock’s presence, a man who was shifty-eyed, overly-observant, had absolutely zero filter, would somehow know their innermost secrets and discuss them openly as if he were talking about the weather. Before long the parents were gossiping amongst themselves, complaining about him: “Oh God, another play-date. I’ll go just as long as Sherlock Holmes isn’t going to be there. Last time he talked to me for a half hour about how you could tell a person’s life story from their wristwatch. Their _wristwatch_. I wanted to die.” The parents began to avoid him, and the best way for them to avoid him was for their children to avoid his. So the whispers and gossip trickled down to the little ears of the children, and poisoned them against Anna Watson and the man who was raising her.

                By the time Anna was seven, she’d already started playing defense. The comments that the children repeated to her, those that they had heard their parents make, she denied them with an anger and fervor, not really understanding what they meant, but knowing that they were against her and against Sherlock.

                By the time she was eight, Anna had begun to lie. It was easier, to lie. Some child would make a comment and, instead of simply denying it, she’d retort with a false truth. The other children would be confused. And upset. They’d go to their parents with this other truth. “No,” their parents would say. “Anna is a liar. Don’t play with her.”

                By the time she was nine, Anna was on the offense. She’d make up wild stories, pretend to know facts that the other kids didn’t, and make fun of them when they didn’t know. She called people “Stupid,” “Idiot,” “Imbecile” (once she’d learned the word). She made other kids cry. But she was triumphant—she’d learned how to avoid being made fun of: _just make everyone afraid of you_.

                By the time she was ten, she’d tired of the lies. She’d tired of making fun of others and being made fun of herself; she just wanted to leave it all untouched. It was so much easier to just not interact with people. Instead she focused on homework and music and fiddle and, if she needed companionship, she’d go to Sherlock, or Mrs. Hudson, or Molly. That was enough, for her.

                Sherlock didn’t know any of this of course. She’d kept it from him as best she could, for she was afraid that if he found out, he would somehow think he’d failed her. And the absolute worst thing in the world was disappointing him.

                But now, she had to actually interact with people her age, and not just in politeness—they were a band, so they had to play music, which involved _feeling_. During her first practice with them, the three of them began to play a song they’d written and asked her to come in when she thought it could use some accompaniment. She’d tapped her toe and let her heart beat in rhythm, and once the goose-pimples popped up on her skin, she began to play.

                It was even better than playing by herself, or listening to music; she went to The Void, but this time, there were three other people there with her. They’d dissolve their separate identities and become one entity of sound, throbbing and humming together. And when they’d finished, they’d all look at each other, bright-eyed and excited, because they’d just made something amazing. They were all part of that same experience; she’d bonded with each of them.

                Especially with David.

                Anna felt like whenever she played, she was playing for David. If he liked a certain harmony over a different one, she’d play that one instead. If there was a dispute amongst the members, she would always take his side. And he’d give her this wink that made her legs turn to jelly… and that’s when she began to regret the “one practice a week” she’d made Mycroft agree to.

                She arrived home after Friday’s practice, humming one of their songs and replaying every detail of the session in her head—especially all of the instances where David’s eyes had met hers—and was so deep in thought that she didn’t look where she was going as she went through the front door. She turned the corner and ran right into Molly Hooper.

                “I’m sorry!” she exclaimed, reaching out to Molly. “Are you alright?”

                “Oh yes, I’m fine,” Molly replied breathlessly, with a smile. She touched her hair to make sure it was still in place. “How are you, Anna?”

                “Very well, thank you,” said Anna, giving Molly a hug.

                It was difficult not to like Molly Hooper. She’d babysat many times when Anna was young and sometimes took her to go shopping or see a movie. “Girl time,” Molly called it. “You have got to be so deprived, living here with Sherlock!”

                When Anna was younger, she’d had these wild fantasies about Sherlock and Molly getting married. She’d even attempted, on a few occasions, to set them up. Once, when she knew Molly was coming over for dinner, she’d lit some candles on the table and when Molly arrived made an excuse to leave: Mrs. Hudson needed her to read something to her, she was blind as a bat! Of course Sherlock, as obtuse as ever, yelled down the stairs for Mrs. Hudson; and when Mrs. Hudson tottered up to the second floor and had no idea of any plans for Anna to visit her that evening and said her eyes were perfectly fine (as long as she had her spectacles), Anna was sent to her room for lying. She was nine, at the time.

                Molly knew immediately what Anna had been up to. After she’d explained it to a flustered and disbelieving Sherlock, she’d come into Anna’s room to talk to her. With a sad smile, she’d told Anna that it was a sweet gesture and not to worry about Sherlock’s reaction as he had a hard time noticing that sort of thing. Anna was frightfully embarrassed that Molly and Sherlock had figured out what she’d been up to and had hid her face in her pillow. But after a few seconds, she’d looked up at Molly and asked, “Why doesn’t Sherlock get married?”

                Molly thought for a long while about how to phrase it, twirling her hair round her fingers. Finally, she explained it this way:

                “It’s hard for Sherlock to fall in love. His mind just doesn’t think in that way, the way yours and mine think. We dream of a handsome man to come a sweep us off our feet, to have a wedding and babies and all the rest.” Anna’s young eyes twinkled at the thought. “But Sherlock has different dreams…” she hesitated. “Well, I’m not actually sure what they are, but I know they don’t include a pretty lady to marry and ride off into the sunset with. If I had to guess, I’m sure they would include you—” Molly poked Anna on the nose affectionately “—growing up and becoming a successful young woman.”

                “But isn’t he lonely?” asked Anna, uninterested in Sherlock’s dreams for her future.

                Molly got a sad look in her eyes and smiled knowingly, the way grownups always did when they were reminded of childlike innocence. She started to speak, but stopped as if she changed her mind. “He’s not lonely, love,” she said, finally. “He has _you_.”

                Now, in the kitchen, Molly put her arm around Anna and said she was hoping to have some “girl time” with her that evening.

                “Of course,” said Anna, excited. Then she looked past Molly to where Sherlock was sitting in his chair, staring at them, his fingers steepled under his chin. “Can I go?” she asked, hesitantly. _What’s the matter with him?_

                Sherlock waved one hand in the air in reply.

                “I guess that’s a ‘yes,’” said Anna to Molly. “Just let me put down my things.” She threw her fiddle case and backpack onto the couch, and her smartphone and headphones slid out of the side pocket and onto the floor. She picked them up and tossed them onto the coffee table.

                Sherlock’s hands left his chin and grabbed the arms of his chair. “Where did you get those?” he quizzed, pushing himself up with inhuman speed and picking up the headphones to examine them before Anna had a chance to think.

                Anna’s heart stopped. _The headphones._ The ones Mycroft had given to her when he’d come to talk to her about becoming a spy. Mycroft had told her to keep them hidden, because Sherlock couldn’t know that Mycroft had been over that day (Mycroft had even avoided straightening the knocker on the front door, although it pained him). She had to think quickly. “I borrowed them,” she said nonchalantly, with just a touch of annoyance.

                “From whom?” Sherlock inquired, turning them over to study them further. “They are clearly expensive, made for a serious music lover or someone who is wealthy, or both. They’re fairly new, judging by the fact that the logo has not worn off the end yet. Who would let you borrow such an item?”

 _Serious music lover._ “David,” blurted Anna, blushing uncontrollably. That was okay, though, she realized. It would help her. A lie began to form in her mind, a lie based on the truth.

                “Da-vid,” Sherlock said slowly, studying her. He glanced at Molly and raised his eyebrows.

                “He’s in my band, remember?” Anna snapped.

                “Of course I remember,” said Sherlock. “And why is _David_ loaning you his expensive headphones?”

                “He… he told me I need to really listen to music. He said it would help me get in touch with my… sensitive side,” she said. She watched Sherlock’s face grow uncomfortable. _Brilliant, Anna_. “He said I’m too uptight when I play fiddle, I’m not really _feeling_ the sound. And then he gave me these headphones, said that next time I listened to music, use them, and I’d really be able to feel what he’s talking about.”

                Sherlock cleared his throat, clearly out of his depth with all of this ‘feeling.’ “Well… if it helps your _sensitive side_ ,” he echoed, his glare boring a hole into her skull. She snatched the headphones away before he could say anything else.

                “Come along Anna, we don’t want to miss the movie,” interjected Molly, with false cheeriness.

                Anna didn’t need telling twice.

***

                Anna and Molly stepped out of the theater just as the rain starting coming down, and Molly put up an umbrella for them to walk under while they traveled to their car a few blocks away. “What did you think of the film?” she asked, huddling underneath it as they splashed down the street.

                To be honest, Anna hadn’t been able to focus on the movie—she was too preoccupied with how dramatic her real life had become. “It was alright,” she answered, noncommittally.

                “Yes, I thought so as well. A bit of a disappointment, actually. I was expecting more gore,” said Molly, sadly.

                They rounded the corner and saw a thin man in a grey hoodie walking down the sidewalk toward them, his hands in his pockets. They didn’t take any notice of him—until he stopped in front of them and brandished a sharp dagger.

                The women froze abruptly, Molly letting out a little yelp of surprise. “Into the alley,” said the man, his gaunt eyes glaring at them from beneath his hood. He used the knife to motion to their right, where there was a small alleyway.

                “Alright, okay,” stuttered Molly, putting a protective arm around Anna and leading her into the alley.

                “Give me your bags,” growled the man once they were off the main street. He thrust the dagger out at them, and Molly shakily handed the umbrella to Anna so that she could take her purse off her shoulder. Anna’s dark eyes watched the thief closely as he reached out with his free hand to take the bag.

                In a flash, Anna closed the umbrella and flipped it upside down. She flung it out and hooked the handle around the man’s wrist, then twisted the umbrella with both hands. The motion, combined with the surprise that the thief felt and the relaxed grip he’d had on the knife while he’d focused on grabbing Molly’s purse, made the dagger go sailing out of his hand and onto the ground. In an instant, Anna picked it up, and with no hesitation swished it out to slice at the man’s right arm. “Yow!” he yelled, turning his injured arm away from the knife, his left hand going to the wound. Without stopping to think, Anna smoothly switched the knife to her right hand and stabbed him directly in his (now exposed) left side.

                She got a shock as the knife slid in up to the hilt—she hadn’t practiced with a real knife before, and didn’t realize how light of a touch she needed to stab someone. She looked into the man’s eyes, his wide, fearful eyes, and felt powerful. She stared him down as she pulled the knife out, hot blood oozing onto her hand.

                The man screamed and staggered to the alley wall, staring at Anna in complete shock and horror. The scream nudged Anna out of her reverie, and she dropped the knife to grab Molly’s arm. “Come on!” she yelled and pulled her into a run.

                They raced out of the alley and down the street to their car, getting absolutely soaked in the rain. “Bugger!” swore Anna, wringing out her hair as they got in the vehicle. “We left your umbrella in the alley.”

                Molly shut her door and turned on the car. “The umbrella?!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide at Anna. “Do you think I give a bloody _pence_ about the umbrella?” Her voice was shaking. She whipped her head around to look out the back window, expecting to see the burglar running after them. She didn’t see anything, but was not convinced. She turned back, put the car in gear, and sped away.

                “Where are we going?” Anna asked, nervous now.

                “To the police, of course!”

                Anna gave her an alarmed look. “No! Molly, no. We can’t.”

                “And why the bloody hell not?” shouted Molly, her knuckles white on the steering wheel.

                Anna stared at her, her heart pounding. If they went to the police, the police would call Sherlock, and then Anna would have to explain how she’d been able to fight the mugger. And she couldn’t think up a good lie to cover the truth. And if Sherlock found it out, everything would be ruined.

                “Molly, slow down,” said Anna. “Let’s stop and talk about this.”

                Molly looked to her, then back at the road, then to her, then the road again. She swallowed and slowed down, turning into a parking space outside of a nearby café. “You, young lady, need to explain yourself. Right this minute.”


	11. Part Two: Subterfuge

                Snowflakes were falling softly outside the windows of 221B, collecting on the outer sills in miniature drifts. “Look, Anna,” said Sherlock, bouncing a nine-month-old baby in his arms. He turned his back toward the window so she could stare at the snow over his shoulder. He watched as her eyes looked out at the flakes, studying them, and he reduced his bounce to a slight sway.

                “Ba-ba-ba!” she babbled, reaching a hand toward the window. Sherlock turned to open it and let the snow in.

                “Sherlock Holmes!” cried Mrs. Hudson, as she felt the chilly breeze. “She’ll catch her death with that window open!”

                “Oh Mrs. Hudson, do calm down. I’ve got her, she’s quite warm enough in my arms.” Sherlock smiled and opened his eyes wide as Anna attempted to feed him the snow flake that had landed on her fist. He stretched his lips over his teeth and slurped the snowflake off her hand, and her eyes brightened as she smiled. She reached out to grab another flake, and as soon as one landed on her (the wrist, this time) she thrust it out toward Sherlock’s mouth. He slurped again, making a silly, surprised face. “That’s cold!” he exclaimed. Anna giggled.

                “Dinner’s on,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Oh Sherlock, do shut that window!”

                “As you wish, Mrs. Hudson," he conceded, then dropped his voice low and complained in Anna's ear.

                “Ohhh, what are you saying to her about me? They’re all lies, Anna,” Mrs. Hudson growled. But her eyes were kind and sparkled, reflecting the Christmas lights strung up on the hearth.

                Sherlock’s parents, Molly Hooper, and Greg Lestrade were already sitting down to eat. It was a bit cramped in the flat, but Sherlock had insisted they have Christmas dinner there—it would be better for Anna to be somewhere familiar so that she wouldn’t be overwhelmed with all those people around. Really, Anna loved the attention; the more people, the better. Sherlock just didn’t want to pack up and haul all of the gear that babies needed whenever they left their homes.

                Sherlock put Anna in her high chair and took his place beside her at the table as Mrs. Hudson brought the out the roast, everyone oohing and aahing over it. She beamed with pleasure. “Oh stop it, all of you, it’s just an old family recipe."

                “So, how was baby’s first Christmas morning?” asked Sherlock’s father, as they began to eat.

                “Quite exciting," Sherlock answered, dryly. “She received a new rocking horse and promptly spent the rest of the morning playing in the box. Honestly, why do we even bother buying gifts for children?”

                “For the boxes, of course,” said Lestrade. Everyone chuckled—everyone except for Sherlock. Lestrade gave him a small smile, but Sherlock ignored it and looked away. They hadn’t been quite right ever since John died.

                “And then, we went to visit your papa, didn’t we, Anna?” Sherlock cooed, feeding her a spoonful of mashed potatoes. He kept Lestrade in his periphery.

                The table grew quiet. Molly looked at him, in astonishment. “You took her to the _cemetery_?”

                “Of course I did,” said Sherlock. “We had to wish John a Happy Christmas.”

                “Sherlock Holmes!” reprimanded his mother, dropping her napkin onto the table with one hand. “How dare you. A cemetery is no place for a baby, especially on Christmas! It’s supposed to be a day of joy and happiness,” she spat, “not depressing dreadfulness.”

                “It _was_ happy,” countered Sherlock. “I told her a few funny stories, she enjoyed it. I think we may make it a yearly tradition.” He fed Anna another spoonful, and no one said anything. Sherlock knew they were feeling sorry for him, and he hated it. But none of them understood. Anna was the only one on his side. It was she and him, the two of them against the world, just as it had always been with him and John. He coughed and changed the subject to something more mundane, and soon everyone had moved on from the conversation.

                The truth was, in the last three months Sherlock hadn’t had any time to be sad or grieve. The only grieving he’d done was in those first few hours after John had died—until he’d come home to find an abandoned child in his flat. The decision to raise her was made at once, with no hesitation on Sherlock’s part. Mrs. Hudson had had her doubts, oh yes, but Sherlock had simply told her, “I’ll figure it out.”

                Of course Mrs. Hudson had been a vital help to him, because he hadn’t known the first thing about babies. He remembered how he’d had to learn to change Anna’s nappies, when and what foods to give her, what size of toy she could play with, how everything at her height level needed to be cleaned and kept clean, how he had to get locks for his windows and gates for the stairs and worst of all he had to throw out all of his experiments—at least for the time being. He remembered how he’d had an absolute fit the first time Anna spit up on his coat, his lovely (expensive) wool coat. “Look at this!” Sherlock had shouted to Mrs. Hudson, shaking it in her face. “It’s a _Belstaff_! It’s ruined!”

                “You’ll just have to get a more appropriate coat, Sherlock,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Something that can be wiped and cleaned easily. It’s just not economical to wear expensive clothing when you have a baby.”

                As he’d had quite enough of Mrs. Hudson by that point, Sherlock employed Molly to come to the store with him and help him pick out something “economical.” She’d gone happily, choosing a bright-red, hooded zip-up jacket that looked like a cross between a tarp and a picnic blanket. He zipped it, staring at himself in the mirror, his upper lip curled into a disgusted snarl. He was completely put-out by the purchase; that was, until a few days later when he was holding Anna in the park and she puked on his arm. He wiped it off in two seconds, with zero damage to the hideous garment, and was so excited that he cheered “Hurrah!” with one fist in the air right in the middle of the park. He then went through a phase where he wore the coat constantly, like it was a hazmat suit and Anna an infected specimen. That disgust of another human’s bodily fluids quickly left him, however, after being spit up on, pooped on, drooled on, and sneezed on so many times he didn’t think he could count them even if he sat down in his mind palace and tried.

                And so, he’d had no time to just _miss_ John. Any time he got a free moment, he fell asleep almost immediately; for someone who used to go days without sleeping for a case, he found he didn’t know the meaning of “tired.” One time, at the beginning—he cringed at the memory—he’d been so exhausted (and frustrated that he didn’t even have time to be properly upset about it) that when Anna woke him for the third time during the night to cry at him for no reason, he started crying right back at her. They just sat on the couch, wailing together, for what seemed like hours but was probably no more than ten minutes. They ended up falling asleep on the sofa and only woke when Mrs. Hudson brought in their usual morning tea.

                Going to visit John’s grave that morning was the first time Sherlock had been able to sort out any feelings he’d had in the last three months. Anna, bless her, had seemed to sense that Sherlock needed some quiet time, and busied herself by gently poking her finger in his hair. Sherlock had stood in front of John’s tombstone, smiling a little at the irony—because not long before, John had been doing the same when he’d believed Sherlock to be dead. The difference now was that John was actually dead, and a request for a miracle wouldn’t reach his ears. It would be lost on the icy, winter breeze.

                “Say ‘hi’ to your papa,” said Sherlock to Anna. But even saying that was upsetting, because of course John wasn’t her real “papa.” Sherlock wished he were. And he wished that John was here, helping to raise the girl, trading off with Sherlock on being up with her nights and wiping up excrement and mashing endless amounts of over-cooked peas. He wished that Anna was poking John in the head right now instead of him. He imagined John’s face, lips clamped together, staring straight ahead, trying to ignore the baby’s sharp fingernail on his skull. He and Sherlock would catch each other’s eye as Anna kept poking and poking, and John would say something like “I’m going to kill her,” and Sherlock would smile (with his eyes only) and say, “No, you’re not.” John would sigh and turn to catch Anna’s finger and say “No, I’m not” as she squirmed away, giggling, and all three of them would be intoxicated by their happiness.

                Of course, that was an insane and completely unrealistic fantasy. Even if John were still alive, Sherlock highly doubted that he would have helped him to raise Anna. Perhaps he’d babysit now and then, but he’d probably just pass her onto Mrs. Hudson and go back to whatever dangerous case he’d been in the middle of in his own little Sherlockian world. Funny how much things had changed in just a few short months.

                Now, he looked over at Anna, who had been given a slice of Christmas pie and who looked as if she’d thought it a hat instead of food. She banged her sticky fists on her tray, yelling nonsense at such quickly varying octaves that it could have only been an attempt at singing. Sherlock smiled and sat back in his chair, listening to the music of her most unique and absurd Christmas carol, enjoying it in a way that only a parent could do.

***

                Molly stared at Anna over a cup of sub-par coffee and watched her eat a piece of apple pie.

                “So, let me get this straight,” said Molly. “You are training to be a spy for the British government, through the instigation of Mycroft Holmes.”

                Anna swallowed her mouthful of apple. “Yes, that’s right,” she answered. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been able to think of a believable lie to cover the truth. Mycroft would not be happy.

                Molly narrowed her eyes. “And what business does the British government have recruiting a thirteen-year-old girl for espionage?”

                “That would be a question for My croft.” Anna was nervous that she that she would say too much. She sensed that she could trust Molly, but she didn’t want to put her in danger.

                “You mean, you never asked why?”

                Anna sighed. Molly was too suspicious now. If she didn’t tell her the truth, Molly was going to go straight to Sherlock. Anna swallowed and glanced around to make sure that no one was sitting too close. “Molly…” she began, unsure of what to say. She decided to take Mycroft’s approach, and just get it over with. “You probably don’t know this, but John Watson was not my real father.”

                Molly stared at her, blankly. “Of course he was.”

                “No,” said Anna, looking at the table. “He wasn’t.”

                “But…” Molly’s voice trailed off. “John and Mary…. Who else’s could you _be_?”

                For all of Molly’s cleverness, she could sometimes be quite thick. “My mother had an affair,” Anna explained. “With Jim Moriarty.”

                Molly’s eyes grew wide, then relaxed as understanding came over her. “Oh my God,” she said. The two women stared at each other for a moment, Molly clearly thinking and trying to work it all out. “Oh my God,” she said again, slumping back against the booth. “He’s back.”

                A fierceness sprung into Anna’s eyes. “I’m going to make him pay for what he did, Molly. For what he did to my father—I mean, John…” she shook her head a little. “And to Sherlock.”

                Molly looked back at her, wearily. “Sherlock has no idea, does he?”

                “No. And he can’t know. If he did, he’d never let me continue with it.”

                “Well of course he wouldn’t,” replied Molly, her hands fiddling with her coffee cup, “because it’s a crap idea.”

                Anna started to feel panicked. “Molly, please. You can’t tell him. You can’t. I’ve worked too hard… and if I don’t do this, Moriarty will come after me anyway. You know he will. And he’ll use me to hurt Sherlock again…” She searched Molly’s face.

                Molly ignored her gaze, instead staring into her coffee. Then she looked out the window, angry tears in her eyes. “I hate him,” she said, quietly. “I hate that man. Sherlock has been through so much because of that man. It’s not fair, it just isn’t.” Molly took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You know, Sherlock’s been quite suspicious of you and your ‘band.’ (I suppose that’s when you’ve been training with Mycroft, yeah?) Well, I can tell you that Sherlock knows you’re up to something, but he seems to be completely out of his element when trying to deduce anything about you. He thought—he thinks it’s about a boy. He wanted me to talk with you about _sex_.”

                Anna choked on her last bite of pie. “What?” She immediately thought of David, and felt herself start to blush.

                “Yeah, that’s why I took you out tonight. So we could have The Talk.”

                Anna was bright red. “Well thank God he didn’t try to give me The Talk himself. Can you imagine?” Her eyes opened wide in horror.

                Molly giggled, her mood lifting suddenly as she imagined it. “That’s why I volunteered,” she explained. Then her smile melted as she realized the depth of what she’d actually volunteered for. “Anna…” she started. Then, “I’ll keep your secret.”

                Anna released a breath that she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

                “But know this,” Molly continued, “If at any point I believe you’re in danger, I’m going to tell him. I’ll have to.”

                Anna sighed. “The whole thing is going to be dangerous, Molly. You can’t say anything, please.”

                Molly looked at her, worriedly. “Alright,” she conceded. Anna gave her a small smile, and she returned it but didn’t look reassured.

                “Wait—“ Molly started, her expression suddenly fearful. “Shouldn’t you call Mycroft?”

                Anna raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

                “Well,” she replied, nervously, “because there’s a tramp bleeding in an alleyway who will either die, and there will be questions, or will live, in which case… he saw your face.”

                “Shite,” Anna swore, and pulled out her mobile.


	12. Part Two: Subterfuge

                Anna and Molly didn’t return home until very late, and when they did, they found Sherlock playing violin. “Sherlock!” scolded Molly. “It’s nearly midnight, you’ll wake the whole street!”

                Sherlock ignored her, of course. “He has a thing about having to finish a song,” explained Anna, rolling her eyes. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

                Molly eyed Sherlock’s back. “No, I’d better pop off to bed. I have _work tomorrow_ ,” she said loudly, to remind Sherlock that he did as well.

                “On a Saturday?” Anna asked.

                “Yeah,” said Molly. “There was a fishing boat that sunk last night—we’ve got several bodies to exhume… well, have a good evening.” She leaned in to give Anna a hug.

                “Thank you, Molly,” Anna whispered in her ear. When they pulled apart, Molly gave her a nervous smile. Then she went out of the flat.

                Anna turned to look at Sherlock. His music was melancholy tonight… he didn’t usually play so emotionally. Something about the way he was standing and swaying to the music, ever so subtly, moved her. She thought about all that had happened in the last few weeks, and all that had happened tonight… in that time, she hadn’t really given a thought to how Sherlock was reacting—she’d just focused on lying to him, convincing herself that she was doing it all for him in the long run. But now she thought about it, and realized with guilt that Sherlock probably thought she was pulling away from him in her teenaged state. He probably felt like he was losing her.

                Anna quietly moved over to the couch and opened up her fiddle case. She pulled out the instrument and bow and stood next to Sherlock, noticing his eyes glancing her way as she raised it under her chin. She began to play, and though she’d never much liked violin music, and didn’t know the tune, she found that her band practices had significantly improved her accompaniment skills.

                They stood there and played together for a few minutes, beautifully, and when they began to reach the conclusion of the song, Anna followed his lead to the end. The silence afterward was so full that they both just stood there for a moment, experiencing it.

                Sherlock set his violin back into the case and broke the spell. He clasped the case closed and, without looking at her, said, “Thank you.”

                Anna, to save herself from crying, said in response, “I still prefer fiddle.”

                Sherlock smiled out of the corner of his mouth. “Off to bed with you,” he scolded at her, turning around.

                Anna smiled back at him, then silently packed up her fiddle and went upstairs to do as she was told.

***

                “Whatever you said to her, it worked,” said Sherlock the next morning at the mortuary, where three corpses needed to be sliced open and dissected. “She seems much more relaxed… and she’s actually friendly, again.”

                Molly didn’t respond right away. The whole situation made her uncomfortable. Sherlock had always trusted her as a confidant, and as such they’d had and unspoken understanding to always be honest with each other.

                Sherlock immediately noticed her distress. “What?” he asked.

                But Molly couldn’t tell him. She just couldn’t. Because if there was a chance that Anna could do what she said she could, to finish Moriarty once-and-for-all, then Molly had to help her. “Oh, nothing. It’s just that things are so different among young people these days...  seems like none of them are normal teenagers anymore.”

                Sherlock averted his eyes. “Well, there I can’t help you. I didn’t have much of a ‘normal’ teenage experience, either.”

                Molly looked up, her interest piqued. Sherlock must be in a good mood today—he never normally offered up stories about his past.

                “So what did she say?” asked Sherlock, bending over to start the first autopsy.

                “Pardon?”

                Sherlock continued cutting into the fisherman. “Anna. What did she tell you last night? About what’s been going on with her?”

                Molly hesitated. “I… I don’t feel right betraying her confidence.”

                Sherlock stopped the incision and looked at her. “Excuse me?”

                “Well, you know, she’s thirteen. She’s got a right to a little bit of privacy, don’t you think?”

                His eyes grew icy. “No, I don’t _think_ , Molly. I have a right to know what’s going on. For God’s sake, I’m her—her guardian,” he finished, lamely.

                Molly looked at him. She knew she was about to betray a special part of their friendship, and she hated every second of it. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I’m not going to say what she told me. I’m not your spy.” She felt terrible.

                Sherlock stared at her, confusion rippling across his face. “I apologize if I made you feel like that,” he said, slowly. “You know I’m just concerned for her safety.” He waited for Molly to respond, but she kept working and didn’t acknowledge him. “Fine,” he snapped, becoming angry. “Don’t tell me. But can you at least say if she’s acting… appropriately?”

                Molly looked up at him. “Yes, Sherlock. Like I said before, she’s a smart girl. She’s going to be fine.”

                A strange expression came over Sherlock’s face—he almost looked… helpless. She knew he was grasping at straws trying to deal with raising a teenager. She couldn’t imagine how abnormal his teen years had been and how hard it had to be for him to relate to Anna.

                “Thank you,” he replied coldly, the helpless look passing. They went back to work in silence.

                After the first two autopsies were completed, Molly opened the drawer that held the third and final body. She and Sherlock lifted the bag and set it on the table.

                “This one’s unusually light,” he remarked, frowning.

                Molly started to unzip the bag while Sherlock got a clean set of tools. Suddenly, she gasped and hopped backwards. “Sherlock!”

                Sherlock whipped around to see what was the matter, and saw that the body on the table wasn’t a fisherman….

                It was a teenage girl.

                Sherlock stared at Molly, in shock. “Was this one with the other two?” he asked, his voice urgent, “on the boat?”

                Molly looked at the ticket on the body’s toe. “Yes, that’s… that’s what it says. All three came in yesterday afternoon, right before I left.”

                Sherlock came up to the body to take a closer look. The girl was thin and short, with long, dark hair. Molly rifled through the stack of papers on a nearby desk, looking for the file on the girl; she found it sitting on top. “Yes, it was definitely found with the wreckage,” she said, reading. “Looks like—“

                “Molly.”

                She looked up. “What?”

                Sherlock swallowed, all the blood drained from his face. Molly’s breath quickened as she was struck with a terrible fear; nothing made Sherlock go pale. Nothing.

                “This girl did not drown on a fishing boat.”

                Sherlock moved the black body bag aside to reveal a small, intricately-placed bullet hole in the chest, right next to the young girl’s heart.

                Molly’s eyebrows grew together in confusion. “But…”

                And then Sherlock did a curious thing. He unbuttoned his lab coat and his dress shirt, and began to lift up his vest to reveal his bare skin beneath. “Sherlock…” Molly began. _What was he doing?_ But she didn’t have to wonder for long, because as Sherlock continued to lift up his shirt, staring at the wound in the poor dead girl, Molly could see the scar from a bullet that she’d forgotten had entered Sherlock’s body in the same exact spot nearly fourteen years earlier.

                Sherlock looked up and met Molly’s eyes. He let out a breath, forming it into one, short word:

                “Mary.”


	13. Part Two: Subterfuge

                Molly and Sherlock sat out on the roof of St. Bart’s, staring at the buildings around them. Sherlock was thinking back to a simpler time, when all he’d had to do was fake his own death to outsmart Moriarty. But now the game was getting serious. There were so many players, and Sherlock couldn’t see the moves clearly; sentiment had fogged his field of vision. He cursed himself for that, for becoming so… _weak_.

                “I have to go after them,” he said, after some time.

                Molly looked at him in disbelief. “Sherlock, you can’t do that. You have to think about Anna. If something happens to you, what will she do? Where will she go?”

                “I _am_ thinking about Anna,” Sherlock snapped. “For God’s sake, that’s all I think about. Were you not just in the morgue with me? Did you not just see the threat made deliberately on Anna’s life? If I don’t go after Mary and Moriarty, they’ll kill her,” said Sherlock, shrilly, “like they killed John.”

                “Sherlock,“ Molly began, “maybe that’s what they want you to do. Did you ever think of that?”

                Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and got down from the wall, grabbing his own head in frustration. “Of course I’ve thought of that!” he snarled. “Do you presume me stupid?! Do you, Molly?!”

                “No,” she answered, meekly.

                “Then cease asking me stupid questions!” He turned and strode over to the ledge he’d jumped off many years ago.

                Molly followed him. “Tell Mycroft,” she said. “I’m sure he’s already got an eye on Mary and Moriarty, and this might help him—“

                Sherlock laughed bitterly. “My brother has no sense of morality when it comes to catching enemies of his country. Knowing him, he’d use Anna as bait. No, Mycroft is the last person who should get involved in this.” He sighed. “But you’re right, Molly… Anna needs a place to go if something should happen to me. And I should be much obliged—no—honored, if that place would be with you.”

                Molly looked over in surprise. “Not with Mrs. Hudson?”

                “No. Mrs. Hudson… she’s getting too old for that sort of thing. And,” Sherlock continued awkwardly, “I’ve always thought of you as a sort of—a sort of mother to her. If I had… if I wanted… wasn’t so… well, we could have been a... family.” He cleared his throat most uncomfortably. “Anna would have been happy with that, at any rate. Gotten what she wanted.” He smiled, remembering the candle-lit dinner.

                “So would’ve I.”

                Sherlock blinked, surprised. It was no secret that Molly was in love with him, but he’d assumed that she’d long ago given up on that front. She’d never once brought it up, in all those years they’d been working together, side-by-side…

                Molly bit her lip, as if deciding whether or not to continue. “Oh Sherlock, I would have done it in a heartbeat, had you asked me. I would have done anything, really.” Her eyes filled with tears, and Sherlock felt a sharp pang of guilt. “I know it was foolish, how I wanted you, but I couldn’t help it.”

                Sherlock thought he should say something. “Molly, I want you to know that I am entirely grateful for—“

                “No,” she interrupted. Two fat tears spill over her bottom eyelids, and she wiped them off gently, turning out to face the skyline. “No, Sherlock, I don’t want your pity. I never have. You reach this point where you sort of just accept that your feelings won’t be returned, but it doesn’t matter; you’re going to keep feeling them anyway. You come to a sort of peace with it, knowing that you will love this person forever even though they can never love you back. You accept that you’ll do anything for them, be anything they want you to be, because you no longer have control over yourself or what happens to you. You’re totally consumed by love.” Molly sighed through her tears, and turned back to him. “I will do anything for you, Sherlock. Of course I will take care of Anna if something happens to you. Of course I will keep your secrets. I’d much rather be your… your _wife_ ,” she forced out the word amid a little sob, “but I will take ‘platonic confidant’ and ‘god-mother to your child’ any day of the week.”

                Sherlock beheld her, amazed at her admission. So she hadn’t given up, in all those years, in all that time, and circumstance, and change. She still loved him and would continue to do so. “I wish I could love you the way you deserve,” he said then, honestly, his eyes not leaving her face. He wished he could give her what she wanted, he really did. _Even just a kiss_ , thought Sherlock. It’s what he’d always wanted from John. Just one kiss, it would have been enough for a lifetime.

 _Well_ , he thought suddenly, _I_ _could_ _give her that._

                Sherlock stepped closer to Molly and slowly grasped her chin with his thumb and forefinger, and she drew in a breath as his skin made contact with hers. He gently turned her face toward his, and she looked up, confusion swimming in her eyes.

                He kissed her.

                And then, to both of their surprise, he kissed her again.

                And again.

                And again.

                Sherlock wasn’t sure what was happening. He hadn’t kissed a woman since… well, he supposed Janine was the last. But that had been for a case; there had been nothing there, no feelings involved. But this, with Molly, was different. It was friendly, but intensely so. It was full of something. Caring, maybe? Yes, he cared for her. Maybe more than he thought he had. He wanted her to enjoy this. The thought that she was enjoying it, that made him want to do it again. Yes, she was liking it. Yes. _Yes._

                Sherlock slid his hand from her chin farther up her face, cradling it. He put his other hand through the space between her waist and arm, spreading it wide on the small of her back and pulling her the tiniest bit closer. He kissed her again, and she made a small sound in the back of her throat. _A moan._ He had made her moan.

                And that’s when Sherlock realized that Molly wasn’t the only one enjoying this.

                Suddenly, he felt something that he had not felt in many, many years, like a white hot fire engulfing his body. _Desire_ , he thought, the word jumping out of the back of his mind. _I want_ _her._ He turned his head a little farther to kiss her more deeply, and he felt her fingers cling to the sleeves of his lab coat. She kissed him back, still hesitantly, and he couldn’t blame her; after so many years of him spurning her advances, he was sure she couldn’t fathom what was happening. He certainly couldn’t. He’d given up on women a long time ago—there had been a few, back at uni, but he’d never really felt anything more than a mild interest in them. He’d learned quickly that he much preferred men.

 _Well,_ Sherlock thought, _not today, I don’t._

                Somehow, they teleported back down to the lab. Sherlock didn’t know how that happened, didn’t care. He found his hands roaming the curves of her body, inside of her lab coat, and she shook it off her shoulders with one swift motion. Sherlock leaned forward to kiss her again, but she suddenly shrank back and stared at him. _What’s she on about?_ he thought, annoyed.

                “Sherlock…”

 _Oh God. She’s worried. She’s confused. It’s catching up with her, and she’s going to want to_ _talk_ _about it._

                Sherlock grabbed her face with both hands and backed her up against the edge of an empty autopsy table, pressing his hips into hers. “Molly,” he growled, his voice thick, “do shut up.” And then he drove his tongue into her mouth, and felt her body go limp around his kiss.

                Sherlock bent his knees and slid a hand under her bum, lifting her and setting her on the hard, metallic table. Her legs instinctually wrapped around his waist and pulled him closer to her body, and he heard her shoes fall off one by one somewhere in the distance. He began to rub the tops of her thighs, sliding his hands over her skirt (and what luck that it _was_ a skirt) and then, as he bent his head to suck gently on her neck, he folded up the edge of the skirt and smoothed his spindly fingers all the way up, up, up—

                “Oh!” Molly gasped, as he brushed his thumb over her clit. He felt it hot and swollen beneath his touch, even through her knickers. He kissed down the front of her chest, over her clavicle and her sternum, and Molly arched backwards in response, running her fingers gently through his curls, panting so forcefully that he could feel her breath moving the hair atop his scalp. He felt a sense of pride, a surge of confidence, that he was unraveling her this way.

                Suddenly, he was up in her face again, and grasped her hips to pivot her sideways as he climbed up on the table with her. He pushed her back so that she was laying down flat, and stared into her heavy-lidded eyes for a moment before sliding off the end of the table with a mischievous grin. She gasped again in surprise as he gripped her ankles and slid her forward on her bum, then leaned down on his elbows and dipped his head to kiss and lick all the way up her inner thigh. He wrinkled her skirt further up, now past her crotch, now up to her waist, his lips finally over her nub. Molly relaxed her knees apart ( _rather unconsciously_ , Sherlock thought) as he hovered, his hot breath released on the thin fabric that separated his mouth from her body.

                Slowly, Sherlock spidered his fingers up the front of her and hooked them in the delicate elastic of her knickers. He heard a whimper from above his head and looked up to see Molly staring down at him, her chest heaving with her rapid breath, her expression caught between a smile and a sob. “Do you want this, Molly?” he asked, his voice rumbling deep and sultry in his chest. “Do you want me to taste you?”

                Molly nodded, her hands in fists at her sides. “Yes,” she squeaked. “Oh yes, please.” She lifted her hips as Sherlock slid her undergarments off, already soaked through with desire. He felt his prick twitch with anticipation, and bent his head down low to give her clit a wide, flat lick.

                “Oh God,” Molly moaned, this time more than audibly, and Sherlock heard a _thud_ as she rested her head back on the surface of the table. He licked her again, this time sucking a bit at the end, and she raised her hips off the table to keep herself in his mouth. Sherlock brought a finger up to tease her slick opening and continued to use his tongue, over and over, sliding the finger between her lips, around the outer edge of her snatch, and then, when she was quivering under him, he slipped the finger inside of her.

                “Fuck,” she breathed, her hands suddenly opening up and flying to the edges of the table.

                And that was it. Something about her sweet, innocent mouth uttering such a filthy word unraveled something inside him. Sherlock suddenly needed her, needed to feel her tight, wet cunt enveloping his cock, needed that warmth of their bodies together, needed it _now_. He stood up and grabbed her knickers with one hand, pulling them the rest of the way off her legs and dropping them on the floor, and then undid his own belt and zip. Molly propped herself up on her elbows to have a look.

                “I want you, Molly,” Sherlock told her, taking off his pants now. He watched her eyes flicker wide as they caught sight of his erection, and he grasped it in his hand to show her he knew where she was looking. He climbed up on the table again, poising his waist over hers. “Say I can have you.”

                “Sherlock,” Molly choked out, her eyes soft on his. “You’ve always had me.”

                He kissed her mouth as he slid inside.


	14. Part Two: Subterfuge

                _Probably was not the most sanitary choice_. _Probably should give that table an extra-good cleaning before we leave. Should check the cameras, too. Are there cameras in here?_ Sherlock looked around. _None visible._ _But there ought to be cameras, and the footage will have to be destroyed._ He would do that personally.

                He looked down at Molly, who was resting her head on his chest. He felt very strange now that his physical desire had been satisfied. It was like he was two different people, and he was trying to reconcile them, and he was failing miserably. He had memories of what just happened, but they seemed to him like scenes from a film: his mouth on her lips, neck, breasts; her hands on his chest, in his hair, pulling him into a curl on top of her. Limbs over limbs, under limbs, sticking together. Grasping the hard, metal table beneath them. Tension building, then exploding in release, her breathing loud in his ear, his involuntary groan into her neck. His hearing gone muffled. Collapsing onto the floor beside the table, where he was lying now, remembering everything.

                He felt embarrassed, ashamed. Embarrassed because he’d turned off his mind and succumbed to his physical needs, ashamed because he’d done it with someone that he knew was in love with him, and with whom he had no interested in pursuing a further romantic relationship. He was upset, too, because the last thing he wanted to do was hurt Molly. He relied on her friendship, couldn’t bear to see it go. But the consequences of what just happened could do it. They could drive her away.

 _When did I become so weak?_ Emotions were so messy, so debilitating, and he knew that, had known it ever since he was a child. He supposed his resolve started to break down the moment he met John Watson.

 _John._ Thinking about John still made his heart ache in a most terrible way.

                Sherlock realized then that he was lonely. That was the only word for it: loneliness. All he could think about as he was making love to Molly, besides how good it felt, was how _close_ he was to another person; he hadn’t had any sort of closeness in several months. When John had died, there was Anna to temper the isolation, and she’d done it well—in some ways, it had almost been like having John in the flat again, except better, because there was no threat of her leaving if Sherlock made a mess of things. She accepted him, totally and completely, because that was all she’d ever known. She’d always forgive his transgressions. She was his family.

                But now Anna was a teenager and had more important things to do than spend time with him or worry about his feelings. He doubted that they’d even crossed her mind (they rarely crossed his own, anyway). And Molly was right, that was normal. She was a normal teenage girl, who had put up with so much from him over the years, and now it was time for her to start living her own life.

                Sherlock sighed there, on the floor of the mortuary; now that he recognized the loneliness, he had a sinking feeling that he was not going to be able to get rid of it. He looked down at Molly again, who was watching him through soft, sleepy eyes. She smiled a private smile, a knowing one, like they were in a room full of people and sharing an unspoken secret. He felt a warmth and excitement flutter in his gut, in spite of himself. He became acutely aware of all of the places their bodies were touching—they all started to tingle pleasantly. Molly lifter her head to kiss him softly, and the tingling spread across his skin to more… unmentionable locations. _Again?_ thought Sherlock in disbelief. _Didn’t I just decide this had been a mistake?_ But then Molly slid her hand down, down, and _oh_ , thought Sherlock, _there will be plenty of time later for regrets._

***

                Sherlock came home late, completely exhausted. He didn’t have time to be exhausted, he knew, because there was a threat out there that he had to neutralize. He had to plan it all out, carefully. He had to do it for Anna.

                He stepped through the door and collapsed on the couch. Maybe just a bit of sleep, just a little nap to recover some brain power. But he found that he couldn’t sleep, not while he was so concerned with finding Mary and Moriarty. If they got their hands on Anna… he would never forgive himself.

                _Speaking of, where_ is _Anna?_

                Sherlock sat up, listening. He heard some movement coming from Anna’s room upstairs, and then music started playing from her speakers. Sherlock got up from the couch and climbed to the next floor. “Anna?” he called, knocking on her door before he opened it.

                The first thing he saw was the boy. He was tall and thin and rolling slowly on top of the bed. No, not _directly_ on top of the bed. On top of Anna.

                Sherlock felt a rage boil inside of him so suddenly that for a moment he thought he might pass out. But he didn’t. Instead, he stood there, watching them in shock. They hadn’t heard him come in; they were oblivious.

                “ _ANNALISE WATSON!_ ” Sherlock bellowed, finding his voice. The boy leapt off the bed like he’d had an electric shock, backing into Anna’s dresser so forcefully that he knocked over the pictures of her and John sitting on top. Anna grabbed the nearest blanket and clutched it to her chest, as she was only wearing a bra.

                “Oh my God!” she screamed. “Get out of my room!”

                But Sherlock didn’t seem to hear her. He was too focused on the boy, who was trying to put on his t-shirt and ended up sticking his arm through the neck hole, twisting it and getting tangled. In one giant movement Sherlock was in front of him, grabbing the t-shirt, pulling the boy’s head down and slamming it to the top of the dresser. He recognized the boy as one of the members of Anna’s band.

                “ _David_ , I presume,” Sherlock snarled. He noticed, seeing David without a shirt, that though the boy was small for his age, his muscles were much too developed for a thirteen- or fourteen- year-old. He was eighteen at least, probably older. Sherlock felt sick. He bent his head so close to the boy’s ear that his lips touched it as he growled: “Do you know what I do for a living, David? I cut up people’s _bodies_. I know where every _bone_ , every _tendon_ , every _organ_ is located. If you ever… and I mean ever… attempt to contact my daughter again, it will be the very last thing you do. Do I make myself clear?”

                David whimpered in response. Sherlock lifted his head and slammed it down again, making the dresser mirror rattle. Anna screamed.

                “I asked you, _DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?_ ”

                “Y-yes, sir,” said David.

                Sherlock lifted him from the dresser and shoved him toward the door. It took all of his willpower to prevent himself from throwing David down the stairs and breaking his neck. The boy ran as fast as he could out of the room, and they heard the front door slam as he exited the flat.

                “I can’t believe you!” Anna shouted, her voice shaking. “How could you do that?! I’m so mortified!” She started to cry, while Sherlock just stared at her, bewildered at everything. “You’re so bloody _stupid_! Just because you can’t act like a normal human being doesn’t mean that I can’t. I’m so tired of you and your… how you are so fucking oblivious to everyone else’s feelings!”

                Sherlock did not know how to respond. “Stop swearing,” he said, stupidly.

                Anna gave him a frustrated and disgusted look through her tears. “What is the matter with you? Can’t you just be _normal_ for once? Why can’t you understand?” She wrung her hands at him. “Do you know how bloody hard it’s been for me to grow up with you as my father?” Then she laughed, shrilly. “But you’re not my father, are you? I never knew anyone else, but you’d never let me call you my ‘father.’ Oh, no, my father was John Watson, hero and martyr. Well, you know what—fuck him. Fuck John-bloody-Watson!”

                “That’s quite enough!” hissed Sherlock, his face a dark shade of purple. He took a very deep breath. “You obviously need some time to… calm yourself.”

                “Yeah, that’s what I need. You always know what I need, Sherlock,” she retorted, her voice filled with contempt. She turned around and put on the nearest t-shirt, then searched the floor, finding her backpack under her desk. She flung open her wardrobe and began to shove clothes into the bag.

                “What… what are you doing?” Sherlock asked, his voice higher than usual.

                “I’m leaving.”

                Sherlock stared at her, throwing socks and underwear on top of the few clothes. “No, you’re not,” he replied in disbelief, realizing that if she actually wanted to leave there was nothing he could do to stop her (short of chaining her to the radiator, which he did briefly consider).

                Anna laughed a short laugh, zipping up the bag and swinging it around onto her back. She stared him down with red-rimmed eyes. “Yes,” she said. “I am.” And then she walked past him and out of the flat, leaving him standing alone in her empty room.


	15. Part Two: Subterfuge

                Anna slammed the front door and hoofed down the street, her tears blinding her. She rounded the first corner she came to, and an unmarked van screeched up to the curb beside her. The door opened and she got in swiftly. Then the van sped away, leaving as quickly as it came.

                “Brilliant, Anna,” said Mycroft, sitting across from her in the back of the van. He pulled out his ear piece, and Anna did the same, as well as rip the microphone off of her hip. She was still crying. “I couldn’t have done a better job myself,” he continued, collecting the equipment and handing it to the technician seated next to him. “You were absolutely right, you read him like a book. The boy idea was genius.” Mycroft sighed with relief and leaned back against the wall. “You’ll be happy to know that we picked up David, and he has no major injuries.” He smirked a little. “Sherlock has always held a special place for physical violence in his heart.” He looked over at Anna, who was sitting with her face in her hands. “Are you alright?” he asked, confused.

                Anna looked up at him, her countenance broken by misery. “He called me his _daughter_ ,” she whispered. Her eyes spilled over again.

                Mycroft stared at her, uncomprehending. She put her face back into her hands and sobbed the whole way to the training facility.


	16. Part Three: In the Field

                “Is that your _dad_?” whispered one of Anna’s classmates. Sherlock was there for a sort of show and tell—each child’s mother or father was supposed to come into class and get up in front of the other children to talk about what they did for their jobs. Today was Anna’s turn to bring in one of her parents.

                Mrs. Hudson had had a time of it trying to convince Sherlock to go. “But I’m not her parent,” he’d said, trying to get out of it.

                Mrs. Hudson had rolled her eyes. “Oh that doesn’t matter. You’ve got a fascinating job—you work with dead bodies! The children will be hanging onto your every word, and they won’t care if you’re her parent or not.”

                So there he was, sitting awkwardly in a chair that was much too small for him, Anna next to him whispering back to her classmate. “Yes,” she said, too low for Sherlock to hear—she would have been corrected and scolded for lying, if he had, but sometimes it was much less awkward just to lie than explain the truth.               

                “Annalise Watson!” called the teacher. Sherlock stood up abruptly, towering over the eight-year-olds in their tiny desks. He’d pulled out his old wool overcoat from storage especially for the occasion, and the children stared at his ominous figure as he walked to the front of the room accompanied by Anna.

                The teacher clapped her hands together and addressed the students. “Everyone, this is Mr. Watson. Children, say ‘Hello—‘“

                “Actually,” Sherlock interjected, his voice seeming to boom over the crowd. “My name is Holmes. Sherlock… Holmes.”

                The teacher looked a little taken aback. “Oh, alright. Everyone, this is Mr. Holmes—say ‘Hello, Mr. Holmes.’”

                “Hello, Mr. Holmes,” chorused the classroom.

                Sherlock stared at them silently. The teacher coughed an “ahem,” eyeing him.

                “Oh, erm, hello,” Sherlock addressed the students. He looked out into the sea of wide-eyed fourth years.

                “And what do you do for your job, Mr. Holmes?” prompted the teacher.

                “I’m a forensic pathologist,” answered Sherlock. Well, technically he was a forensic pathologists’ _assistant_ —but no one in the room needed to be bothered with that distinction.

                The class gave him a collective blank stare.

                “He cuts up dead bodies,” offered Anna, with gusto. The children immediately perked up. There were murmurs of “Ewww!” and “Cool!” Anna smiled up at Sherlock, and he winked at her.

                One boy raised his hand. “Yes, Jeremy?” the teacher said.

                “Do you have any pictures?” he asked.

                The teacher tutted. “Jeremy, that would not be appropriate! Of course Mr. Holmes doesn’t have pictures.”

                “Well, actually…” Sherlock started, pulling a packet out of his jacket pocket. The children’s eyes grew impossibly wider.

                “Mr. Holmes!” reprimanded the teacher. “Those photographs are certainly not alright for little children to see!"

                Another child raised her hand, a girl this time. Sherlock noticed Anna stiffen as the teacher called on her. “Yes, Sarah?”

                “Mr. Holmes, why is your surname different from Anna’s? _My_ father’s name is the same as _mine_.” There was a malevolent glint in her eye that Sherlock was too far away to see; he couldn’t tell that she already knew the answer.

                Sherlock cleared his throat. “Well, that’s because I am not Anna’s father.”

                Anna’s expression locked in panic, but it was too late.

                “Then, where is Anna’s father?” asked little Sarah, too innocently.

                Sherlock blinked at her. “He was murdered.”

                A hush fell over the classroom. Anna stared intensely at the spaces between the floor tiles. Jeremy spoke up again. “Did you cut up his body?”

                Sherlock was left uncharacteristically open-mouthed by the question. “There… there wasn’t a body,” he said. “He was blown up.”

                The teacher finally found her voice. “That is quite enough of that! Class… say ‘Thank you, Mr. Holmes.’”

                No one said anything.

                Sherlock looked at Anna as they walked back to their seats; she was desperately trying to avoid crying angry and embarrassed tears. “I thought you said he _was_ your father,” accused the little boy she’d been sitting next to before.

                But Anna didn’t answer him; she just kept staring at the ground, wishing for all the world that she hadn’t brought Sherlock to school.

***

                “Molly.”

                Molly had answered the phone with butterflies fluttering around uncontrollably in her stomach. They almost made her feel sick. _Tumultuous_ , she thought. But the butterflies were stifled when she heard the tone of Sherlock’s voice on the other end.

                “Sherlock, what’s wrong?

                “I—I’ve made a terrible mistake, I think. I don’t know… I don’t know what I’ve done. I don’t know what happened, but she’s gone.”

                “ _What?_ ” asked Molly, fear squeezing her lungs.

                “Anna’s run away.”

                Molly breathed again. “Oh my God, Sherlock, I thought—well, it doesn’t matter.” She sighed. “What happened?”

                “Will you come to Baker Street?”

                Molly could almost feel the sorrow in his voice. “Of course I will.”

                It took her twenty minutes to get there, and when she opened the door to the flat, she found Sherlock pacing around the room. “Whoa, Sherlock, sit down. I’m sure she’s fine! Tell me what happened,” she said, putting her hand out to stop his movement.

                “I caught her with… a boy,” he said, his voice strained. “And then we had a row.”

                “A boy?” Molly asked, her brow furrowing.

                “Yes. One of the members of her band. David. They were up in her room and… I though you said she was acting appropriately!” Sherlock whirled on her.

                But Molly wasn’t paying attention to him; she was immensely confused. “David?”

                “Yes, yes, _David_. From her band. The boy who gave her those headphones. I knew that band was a rubbish idea,” he muttered, combing a hand through his hair in frustration.

                “But…” Molly’s voice drifted off as she tried to work it out. The band was a cover-up. Anna had been acting strange because she’d been training to be a spy, not because she was fooling around with some boy… so why…

                Suddenly, Molly’s eyes jumped up to Sherlock’s. All of the color drained out of her face.

                “What?” he asked, impatient.

                Molly opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

                “Spit it out, woman!” Sherlock snapped.

                _“Mycroft,”_ was all she said.

                Sherlock was taken aback. “Mycroft? What the devil does my brother have to do with this?” He stared at her, expectantly.

                Molly stared back with wide eyes, guilt spreading across her face. “Sherlock, I think _I’ve_ made a terrible mistake.” In the distraction of what had happened between her and Sherlock, she’d forgotten to tell Mycroft about the threat they’d discovered in the morgue.

                Sherlock kept staring at her. “Tell me,” he said.

                “We need to call Mycroft.”

                Sherlock pulled out his phone and dialed. It rang… and rang. “No answer,” he said. He tried again. “Still nothing. Molly, _tell me_.”

                She swallowed. “Anna wasn’t in a band.”

                Sherlock searched her face.

                Molly backtracked. “Well, she _was_ in a band, but not really, it was just a cover-up, because…” She looked at Sherlock’s confused, blank stare. “She was working with Mycroft.”

                “What does that mean, Molly? Working with him how? In what capacity?”

                Molly swallowed again, her mouth gone dry. “He was training her. To… to spy, on Moriarty.”

                Sherlock gaped at her.

                Molly began to cry. “She found out… he told her that Moriarty was her real father, and—“

                Sherlock grabbed her shoulders, painfully. “What?”

                Molly’s lips trembled through her tears. “He told her that Moriarty was her father, and that he was back in London, and that the only way to destroy him was from the inside. With Anna as a… a spy. She said she wanted the revenge, for you and for John…. God, Mycroft must be putting her into the field already!” She let a sob escape her lips.

                Sherlock’s complexion was blotchy with rage. “How long have you known this?” he questioned, the muscles in his face twitching. Molly could only sob again. “ _How long, Molly!”_ he thundered, shaking her.

                “You’re hurting me!” she cried. Then, “Since last night. She told me last night.” She closed her eyes.

                Sherlock released her and stepped back. “Do you realize what you’ve done?” he asked, in quiet terror. “There’s a hit on her, Molly. They want to kill her. And you’ve allowed her be sent right into their clutches.”

                Molly’s hands flew to her face in agony.

                Sherlock turned and dialed Mycroft again—still with no answer. “Confound him!” he shouted at the phone. “I am going to kill him! I am going to squeeze the life out of him with my bare hands!” He looked back at Molly. “Have you any possible idea where she’s gone?”

                Molly shook her head without meeting his eyes. She was wholly unable to speak.

                “Then stay here,” he snarled, grabbing his coat. “In case, by some miracle, she comes back.”

                And then he flew out the door, while Molly turned and collapsed onto the sofa, sobbing with terrible, guilt-ridden grief.


	17. Part Three: In the Field

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I decided to create a fake museum for this chapter; having never been to England (unfortunately!), I don’t know what any of the real museums are like inside. And being too lazy to research it, I decided to just make one up :)

                Mycroft sat across from Anna at the training facility, a manila folder in his lap containing the specifics of her mission. She’d finally recovered from her emotional outburst, and she could tell he was grateful. “Sherlock will give you some space, at least for a few days,” he said, beginning to detail the next chain of events. “Probably put out the word to his homeless network to track you down and keep an eye on you. Which of course they won’t be able to do, because you’ll be with Moriarty by that point.”

                Anna took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Do you truly believe I’m ready for this?”

                “Yes, Anna,” Mycroft said, firmly. “But it really doesn’t matter, because we cannot wait any longer to put you in the field.” He considered her. “Do _you_ feel that you are ready?”

                Anna looked back at him. She had lied to Sherlock for months while she trained to become a spy. She had destroyed their relationship to create an alibi for her disappearance. There was no turning back now. “I’m ready,” she said.

                He nodded. “Then let’s begin.”

                The process of putting her into Moriarty’s inner circle was going to be a tricky one. They could not just drop her in front of his “lair”… as if they even knew where that was. No, Moriarty had to come to her, so they had to figure out how to get his attention.

                “What would Moriarty bother paying attention to?” Anna wondered.

                “Crime,” Mycroft answered. “You have to commit a brilliant crime, so clever that he can’t look away. And when he realizes that it’s been carried out by you, his daughter, he won’t be able to resist meeting you. But from that time forward, you will be on your own. We’ll go over all of the details, for information drops and such, but you will not be able to contact me.” He let her digest that. “And,” he added, “you may have to make some… rather difficult decisions. Moriarty will probably want to test your loyalty somehow, so do what you need to do. _Become_ his daughter, Anna, don’t just play the role. It will be the only way that you’ll survive.”

                Anna nodded and set her face. “So, what’s my crime?”

***

                A young girl in a bright yellow dress with a high, bobbing ponytail hopped up to the front desk of the Cultural Museum. It was five minutes before closing time, and the museum had all but cleared out of visitors. She peered over the counter at the lady working in admissions, her hands on the straps of her colorful plastic backpack.

                “Can I see my Daddy?” she asked, in her little-girl voice. She blew a bubble with the chewing gum in her mouth.

                The admissions lady looked at her. She was just about to pack up and leave for the night, but she smiled at the little girl. “And who is your Daddy?” she asked, kindly.

                Anna recited the name that Mycroft had given her. “Charlie Walker. He’s a guard,” she said, proudly.

                The admissions lady picked up her radio and attempted to call the guard, but the radio didn’t work. She glanced at the little girl in her innocent little dress. “Just a moment, dear, I have to find a new radio.” She got up and went through the door behind her, into the back office.

                Anna clutched the signal-jammer in her armpit as she used both hands to help herself over the front of the desk. Thank goodness she was small for her age—the poor lady probably thought she was much younger. Anna grabbed a museum map from the counter, though she knew the layout pretty well; she’d been there a thousand times with Mrs. Hudson, who loved that sort of thing.

                Anna quickly found what she was looking for on the wall next to the front desk; a grated entrance to the ventilation ducts, at floor level. When Anna was younger, she always used to peer inside the grates, thinking that they were secret tunnels.

                Today, they would be.

                She pulled a miniature electric screwdriver out of her pack, keeping an eye on the back office. The admissions lady seemed to be trying all of the extra radios, with no luck. Anna made quick work of the screws and gently pulled off the grate. She looked into the duct, and once again felt thankful that she was small. Without further hesitation, she popped into the vent and set the grate back on the opening behind her—but not before using the chewing gum to add some extra insurance that the grate wouldn’t fall off the wall after she’d left. That had been _her_ idea, the gum. She put the screws just inside the duct and started moving carefully into the passageway.

                Anna pulled out her map once she was a little ways in, using a keychain flashlight on her pack to look at it. _The vaults._ She touched them on the map. That’s where she needed to go. She would have to go the long way round, though, because she was following the vents; they ran along the floor, in the thick stone walls.

                It took her the better part of an hour to get to the vaults—at least, to the entrance of the vaults. She looked through the grate and saw two guards standing outside of it, wishing she’d stolen one of the radios at the front desk; she could have used it to call the guards away from their post. Instead, she would have to improvise.

                Anna banged on the grate. “Help!” she cried, using her little-girl voice again.

                Both guards looked at the vent, bewildered.

                “Help, I’m stuck! Please!”

                One of the guards knelt down. “What the hell? How in the—how did you get in there?”

                “I was just playing!” she said, crying. “Please help me!”

                The guard on his knees tried his radio to call for help, but of course it wasn’t working. He turned to the other guard. “Call maintenance, tell them we need a… screwdriver. Or something.”

                The standing guard spoke into his radio. Then he spoke again. “It’s fucking busted,” he complained. “These sodding things. Don’t ever fucking work.”

                “Hey, watch your language!” reprimanded the kneeling guard.

                The standing guard scowled at him. “Alright, I’ll be back,” he grumbled, and left down the hallway.

                “Will this help?” asked Anna, after he was gone. She was rustling around for something.

                “What?” asked the kneeling guard. “I can’t see.”

                “Look, here!” The guard moved closer, putting his face directly against the grate.

                Anna had four different daggers stowed carefully underneath a flap on the front of her dress; one was long and thin, almost like a rapier, and it was this one that she shoved through the grate to stick the kneeling guard in the eye the moment he pushed his face against the cold metal. He didn’t even scream as he died. _Thank goodness for stupid guards,_ Anna thought _. And long, thin knives._

                Anna had a special tool she’d gotten to extend her screwdriver around corners. She attached it to the screwdriver, then stuck it out the grate—and it immediately dropped onto the floor, just out of reach. “Bollocks,” she swore, banging on the grate in frustration. It fell off the wall and clattered innocently to the ground.

                She blinked at it. “Well, I suppose that works, too,” she said, aloud.

                Anna crawled out of the duct, making a face as she climbed over the guard that she had killed. She glanced down at his nametag— _Charles Walker_ —before wiping her dagger on his shoulder and putting it back in her dress, safely. That was the man she had said was her father. She stared at him, wondering if he actually _did_ have a daughter... and felt a bit sick. She shook her head. _You can’t think about those sorts of things, right now_ , she said to herself. _Focus on your task, Anna._

                Anna turned to the vault doors. They were very modern-looking, with a key-card swipe and thumbprint screen. There were no vents into the vault, at least from the room she was in. _Am I going to have to hotwire the door?_ she thought. She had no idea how to do that… She glanced at the sealed electrical panel next to the key-swipe and felt a sense of panic. Even if she got the panel open and managed to manipulate the wires, a thousand things could go wrong: she could set off an alarm, trigger a lock-down failsafe that would make the room impregnable…. _What am I going to do?_ It was too late to turn back now.

                Anna stepped back to have a better look at the door, and as she did so, she stumbled over the dead guard’s foot. _The guard_. He probably had access to the vault, and probably had a key-card somewhere on his person. He most certainly had a thumb for the thumbprint. “So obvious!” said Anna out loud, shaking her head at herself.

                Anna found the keycard in no time, but how was she going to get the guard’s thumb to the scanner? She picked up his arm and tried to pull him over to the door, but he wouldn’t budge. He was a big man, and dead, and she was small. She cursed him.

                And then, Anna looked down at her chest and felt the sharp knives sitting there patiently in their sheathes. She laughed at her own stupidity. _Come on, Anna,_ she thought to herself. _You have to be quicker about these things._

                She bent down with a wide, sharp knife and chopped off the guard’s thumb in one quick motion.

                Anna went back to the door and took a deep breath before swiping the card. “ _Card accepted. Verify identity.”_ The thumb scanner lit up, and Anna pressed the guard’s severed thumb solidly on top of it. There was a small flash of light, from white to… green. Anna’s breath quickened with excitement as she heard the door unlock and start to open.

                The door parted from its center and retracted into the sides of the wall, revealing a clean, brightly-lit room that had rows and rows of lock boxes around the walls. There was also a table in the center of the room, and a few displays on either side. Anna smiled as she realized she’d hit another stroke of luck: what she wanted was sitting on a display stand right in front of her.

                The crown jewels.

                Apparently, Moriarty had broken into the Tower of London many years ago and “stolen” the royal crown, cape, and scepter. Well, he didn’t actually steal them, as Anna learned by watching the video footage during one of her training sessions. He’d broken in and put on the crown and cloak and waited for the guards to come arrest him. The whole thing had been an advertisement, apparently, for his crime network. _Some advertisement_ , thought Anna. _Yeah, he got in, but how would he have gotten out?_

                That’s what she was going to do.

                Anna had immediately thought of the crown jewels when Mycroft suggested committing a crime to get Moriarty’s attention. She would steal them, the same artifacts that he’d stolen all those years ago, except she would escape with them and bring them to him. She’d make an offering of them; it would be symbolic and irresistible.

                “Unfortunately, getting to the jewels will be much more difficult than in Moriarty’s day. After his little break-in, the Tower of London moved them to the vaults in the Cultural Museum for safe-keeping. Probably more to save face than anything, but it will be quite a nuisance for you,” Mycroft had told her. He was skeptical of her ability to carry out this particular crime.

                Anna had smiled, remembering the vents from when she was a child. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan.”

                And now she’d done it, she’d found the jewels. She walked up to them, touching them with immense satisfaction—and then her spirits plummeted as she realized just how large they were. The cape was so incredibly bulky that there was no way it was going to fit in her backpack and back through the vents. But she realized that she wouldn’t be able to take the vents out, anyway—one of the security guards who had seen her in there was still alive, and once he came back to find the dead guard and the crown jewels missing, he’d know exactly where she went. She wouldn’t have an hour to crawl through the ducts and back to the building’s entrance—she wouldn’t have five minutes. Anna picked up the cape off its hanger and studied it; she was going to have to wear it, and walk out the front door.

                Anna managed to fit the crown in her pack. She twirled the cape around and tied it over her shoulders; it draped down to the floor. Then she picked up the scepter, beautifully shining, covered in gold and precious gems. It was reasonably heavy. She heard Mycroft’s voice echoing in her head, saying “Do what you need to do… it will be the only way you survive.” Anna tested the scepter with a swing in the air. _Yeah_ , she thought, _that’ll do some damage._

                And without further ado, she ran out of the vault and down the hall.


	18. Part Three: In the Field

                Molly woke with a start as Sherlock banged the front door open in frustration. He hadn’t been able to track down Anna or Mycroft in the last twenty-four hours, hadn’t even had a lead. He stomped over to his chair by the fireplace and collapsed in it.

                Molly sat up and rubbed her tired eyes. “Sherlock?” she addressed him, timidly.

                Sherlock stared blearily into the space in front of him… John’s old chair. “I couldn’t find them,” he said.

                Molly stared at her hands, beginning to cry again. “I’m so sorry.”

                Sherlock looked over at her. _Does she ever stop crying?_ he wondered. But in spite of how upset he still was with her, the sight pulled at his heartstrings. “Molly…” he said, giving in and walking over to her. “Molly, look at me.” His voice was stern, but she kept her head in her hands. “Molly!” Sherlock got down and sat on the edge of the coffee table in front of her. He pulled her hands away from her face.

                “I’m so sorry,” she said again, and Sherlock sighed, pulling her to him. She sobbed and clung to his shirt.

                “ _Tut, tut_ , Sherlock,” a voice spoke from the doorway. “Romancing poor Molly when your daughter remains God-knows-where after running away from home? Shame on you.”

                Sherlock stood up so quickly that the blood rushed out of his head. He steadied himself on Molly’s shoulder and threw his brother a look of pure, unadulterated hatred, so intense that Mycroft was physically blown back by it. Mycroft took a step backward, and his eyes widened in confusion. Then they focused on Molly. “What did you say?” he accused.

                “She told me the truth," Sherlock growled. "What the hell have you done? What have you _done_ , Mycroft?”

                Mycroft attempted to look indifferent and righteous. “Sherlock—“ he began, but Sherlock already had him up against the wall, his hands around Mycroft’s neck.

                Mycroft’s eyes bulged in fear, and he was unable to speak. He dropped his umbrella on the ground and moved his arms up to try to push Sherlock off of him, but Sherlock avoided his feeble attempts.

                “Sherlock!” shouted Molly, frantically. “You’ll kill him!”

                “That would be ‘mission accomplished,’” he snarled.

                “But you need him! He knows how to find Anna!”

                Sherlock squeezed harder for a second before releasing his brother’s neck. Mycroft fell onto the floor, coughing and gasping. “Tell me where she is.”

                “Sherlock,” Mycroft croaked, getting up and dusting himself off. “She’s perfectly fine.” He smoothed his hair and cleared his throat, though failing to get rid of the croak. “I’ve trained her well. Everything should be fine.” He coughed.

                Sherlock’s eyes were blazing with rage. “Nothing is fine, Mycroft. It is the opposite of fine.” He was shaking. “We had a deal. You promised you wouldn’t tell her.”

                “And I didn’t, until it became necessary.”

                “That wasn’t your decision to make! She’s _my_ daughter, it was _my_ call!”

                “No,” said Mycroft, sternly. “She’s not your daughter, Sherlock, as you are so fond of telling people. You may have raised her, but she is and will always be the child of Jim Moriarty. And she is the only one who can help us destroy him.”

                Sherlock shook his head. “Well, brother, unfortunately for us both, that’s not true.” He told him about the threat they’d received at the morgue.

                Mycroft’s face remained set. “That doesn’t mean they’ll kill her. After all, she’s left to join them willingly. And I have confidence in her abilities, I know she can convince Moriarty that she’s on his side. You’ve seen her lie, little brother, she’s absolutely brilliant.”

                “I don’t trust Moriarty to react predictably to anything, even the best liar in the world,” Sherlock retorted. “Now, for the last time, _where is she_?”

                Mycroft sighed. “She’s somewhere we can’t go yet.”

                “Damn your enigmatic responses, Mycroft! Where the hell is she!?” Sherlock moved forward and grabbed the front of Mycroft’s shirt.

                “Oh Sherlock, this violence is completely unnecessary. She’s out getting Moriarty’s attention. We decided that she should commit a clever crime, and—“

                “SHERLOCK!”

                All three of them turned to watch Mrs. Hudson tottering up to the flat as fast as her old legs would carry her. They stared at her as she tried to catch her breath at the top of the stairs. “The… telly… it’s… Anna…”

                All of their faces whipped around the other way to the television. Molly tripped over herself trying to switch it on.

                There was a news anchor looking out from the screen; _DEADLY ROBBERY AT THE CULTURAL MUSEUM_ , read the headline. “We’re just getting word that authorities are on the lookout for a suspect after a deadly break-in at the Cultural Museum,” said the anchor. “Eleven people are dead after the perpetrator stole the crown jewels from the museum’s vault. The suspect is…” He paused in surprise, looking off-screen for confirmation. “The suspect is an adolescent girl with dark brown hair, last seen wearing a yellow dress and the… the royal cape.” And there flashed a blurry picture of a short, dark-haired girl, taken from above by a security camera outside the museum’s entrance. She was in motion, running, a luxurious red cape billowing out behind her, a scepter in her right hand, a long, thin knife in her left.

                “I’m—I’m to warn you that these next images are very graphic,” said the anchor, completely bewildered. “This is security footage of the suspect’s escape. She is… she is said to be armed and extremely dangerous.”

                The footage showed the girl killing her way out of the museum. _Killing_ her way out, there was no other way to describe it. Her movements were fast, precise, effective. She was wielding the scepter as a blunt weapon and thrusting out the small sword with her other hand. She was even using the cape, tangling it around the guards before stabbing or bludgeoning them.

                The camera switched back to the open-mouthed anchor, and he stared into it, his teleprompter forgotten. The ticker at the bottom of the screen read: _“Museum authorities promise an inquiry into the possibility of arming guards in the future"_.

                Mycroft, Sherlock, and Molly were all three white-faced and speechless. Mrs. Hudson was red-faced from the climb up the stairs, but speechless all the same.

                “Eleven people,” repeated Molly, breaking the silence. “Eleven.”

                A terrible, awful horror had chilled the blood in Sherlock’s veins. “That’s not a ‘clever’ crime, Mycroft,” he said, still staring at the telly, still clutching his brother's shirt. “That’s a _massacre_.”

                “Well…” replied Mycroft, too shocked to deliver his next words with his usual smirk. “You can’t say that won’t get his attention.”


	19. Part Four: To Kill, and Kill, and Kill

                “I do hope it’s a nice day for it,” said Mrs. Hudson, fretting over the gear they’d packed. “Now, did you remember her raincoat?”

                “Yes,” answered Sherlock, finishing up the toy bag.

                “And what about sunscreen?”

                “Mrs. Hudson, do you really expect us to need both raincoats _and_ sunscreen on the same day?”

                “It’s the beach!” cried Mrs. Hudson. “You never know. Let me run and get that bottle for you.” She climbed down the stairs.

                Sherlock shook his head and turned to see Anna sneaking two more dollies into the bag. “Are you really going to play with all of those toys?” he asked, skeptical.

                “Yes,” she replied.

                Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I’ll be the one hauling them over the sand, I’d better see you playing with every last one of them.”

                “They’re going to have a tea party!” Anna explained, exasperated.

                “Ohhhh…” He nodded in comprehension. “A tea party. Well, then you’d better bring the lot of them. Wouldn’t want any of them to feel left out.” He chuckled to himself as he watched her scamper off to grab the others.

                Mrs. Hudson finally came back up the stairs, brandishing a plastic bottle. “Here you are! I knew I had it somewhere.” She handed him a bottle of sunscreen that looked as if it had survived the Cold War.

                Sherlock frowned. “Mrs. Hudson, this isn’t going to do anything to protect us from the sun. It’s quite expired.”

                “Don’t be silly, of course it will!” she replied with a huff. “I bought while I was in Florida, those people know all about sun protection.”

                “In Florida? When was that, when you were _married_?”

                Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips. “Oh please, it’s not been _that_ long.”

                Sherlock gave her a look.

                “Ready!” announced Anna, dumping three more dolls into the bag.

                The two of them turned around to look at her. “My, how many dolls do you have?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

                “As many as you keep buying for her,” Sherlock retorted.

                The landlady waved away his comment with her hands. “Now you keep out of the waves,” she said, bending down to Anna’s level. “And keep an eye on Sherlock for me, we know how he can get into trouble.” Anna smiled and looked over at him, and he rolled his eyes comically, making her giggle.

                “Get your jumper,” he said, and Anna did so, then skipped down the stairs to the car. He loaded his shoulders and arms with the bags of food, toys, blankets, spare clothes, and God only knew what else. “Remind me again whose idea this was?”

                “Anna’s, dear,” said Mrs. Hudson. “You know, you don’t have to give her _everything_ she wants. She’s five years old, it’s about time she learned the meaning of the word ‘no.’”

                Sherlock ignored her, concentrating instead on getting down the stairs without dropping anything.

                It turned out to be a lovely day at the beach, and Sherlock had bought a fresh bottle of sunscreen just in case. He lathered it on Anna, then sat patiently as she used it to draw on his back. “Am I to have flower-shaped tan lines, then?” he asked, annoyed. “Little hearts and butterflies all over me?”

                Anna giggled. “I’ll rub it in,” she promised. Then, suddenly, she sprang off the blanket and ran.

                Sherlock jumped up and chased after her, kicking up sand behind him. “Oh no you don’t!” he shouted, and she shrieked with excitement as he ganged on her. They splashed through the surf and he caught her and flipped her over. “That’s it, into the ocean with you,” he said with resolve, walking out into the waves. She screamed between bursts of laughter as he mimed throwing her into the great blue deep.

                _“Sherlock!”_

                They heard the excited shout from down the beach and both turned their faces toward the sound—and saw Detective Inspector Lestrade, waving emphatically at them and jogging over, leaving his three girls playing in the sand behind him.

                Sherlock reluctantly walked out of the water and set Anna on the beach as the man stopped in front of them. “Fancy seeing you here!” he said, breathless and with a smile. “And how are you, Anna?” he asked her, crouching down. “You’re getting so big!”

                “Good,” she said, studying him.

                “Lovely,” Lestrade continued, his smile growing. “The last time I saw you was… God, it must have been two years ago! You probably don’t remember me, do you?”

                “Yes I do!” she countered.

                “Well, you’ve got an excellent memory, then.” He stood up and pointed down the beach. “Do you remember my girls? My youngest, Lucy, is only a year older than you. They’re just down there, playing with some minnows they caught in the stream. I’m sure they’d love you to join them.” His eyes flickered to Sherlock as if he was asking for permission, but Sherlock just looked at the girl.

                “Ok!” said Anna, and ran off in the direction of the other children.

                Lestrade blinked. “Wow, she’s outgoing. No fear, that one. When my oldest was that age, you couldn’t even get her to come out from behind my legs.” He looked at Sherlock. “And how are you, mate? It’s been too long.”

                Sherlock had done his best to avoid the Detective Inspector after John had died. If he thought about it logically, Lestrade had saved his life; Sherlock would never have been able to get John out of the glass cage in time for both of them to survive. And if Lestrade hadn’t saved his life, he wouldn’t have come home to find Anna on his doorstep. And Anna was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

                But emotions were illogical, and so Sherlock still held a grudge against the man. They’d seen each other a few times, in group settings, and Lestrade had called to consult with him on a few really head-spinning cases… but they hadn’t spoken in over two years, and that had been just fine with Sherlock.

                However, from the look on his face, it hadn’t been fine with Lestrade.

                Sherlock sighed. “I’m well,” he answered. “Trying to keep up with a five-year-old.” He looked over to where Anna was squatting in the sand with the other man’s children.

                “Just wait ‘til she’s a teenager.” Lestrade shook his head. “It’s complete chaos, twenty-four-seven. Don’t know how I manage to stay afloat.” He smiled again. “You know, we should go for a pint sometime. Just the dads, a little break from reality.”

                “I’m not a dad.”

                Lestrade smile faded. “Ah, well, still…” he started, and then a moment of awkward silence ensued.

                Sherlock sighed again. “I supposed I owe you an apology.”

                Lestrade raised one eyebrow. “For what?”

                “For punching you in the face.”

                Lestrade stared, surprised and confused, and then his face broke into a grin. He laughed heartily. “Don’t worry about it, Sherlock.” His laughter quieted, and then his eyes became very sad. “Come to think of it, it’s me who should be apologizing.”

                “You _did_ apologize,” admitted Sherlock. “I just refused to accept it.”

                Lestrade bit his lip. “You know, I spent hours and hours analyzing what happened in there. What I could have done differently, if I could have saved you both, if I should have just left you like you asked… but I’d promised John. He took me aside before we went into the building and told me to protect you, if there was trouble...” He watched Sherlock’s expression grow painful. “Now, maybe he didn’t know what he was asking, maybe he was wrong. But it’s what he wanted.”

                Sherlock looked out at the ocean and took a deep breath, letting the wind whip over his face and through his hair. “I’m glad you did it,” he said, finally. “I’m grateful, of course I am. Doesn’t mean I’m not angry, still. But you should know that.” He looked back at Lestrade, then held out his hand.

                Lestrade blinked back tears and shook it. “Thanks, mate. You don’t know what that means to me.”

                Suddenly, they heard shouting from down the beach, coming from the children. Lestrade groaned. “Bloody hell, not again… I guess we’d better go see what they’re up to.”

                The two men started towards the girls when Lestrade’s youngest ran up to them, crying. “Daddy!” she wailed.

                “What the devil is wrong with you?” asked Lestrade.

                “It’s Anna. She’s killing them!”

                Sherlock’s eyes snapped over to where Anna was kneeling in the sand next to a bucket. The other two girls came over, and Lestrade knelt down in front of his youngest daughter’s face. “What’s she killing?” he questioned.

                “Our _minnows_.”

                Sherlock left them and strode over to where Anna was playing as Lestrade looked up at the other girls for confirmation. “She wants the ‘meat’ or something,” explained the oldest. “She’s a bit of a weirdo,” she complained, lowering her voice.

                Sherlock came up to Anna and knelt beside her. She was hovering over a wide, flat rock and had a smaller, thicker rock in her hand, and there were two piles of fish bodies laying next to her, separated into what looked like miniature fillets and the leftover skins. “What are you doing, Anna?” he inquired, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. He’d learned that tone of voice was best when attempting to get a child to divulge the truth.

                “I’m getting the meat,” she explained. “My dollies are having fish and chips for dinner.”

                Sherlock stared at her. “Show me how.”

                Anna smiled, happy to show off. “Like this!” She reached into the bucket and pullout out a live minnow, after a bit of splashing. “Sometimes they’re slippery, you have to trap them,” she said, teaching him. She brought the minnow over to the flat rock. “Then, you put them down here, and you pop the meat out.” She held the minnow down on the large rock with one hand, still alive and wriggling, then brought down the smaller rock with the other, slamming it at an angle on the fish’s head. To Sherlock’s surprise, a white fillet popped out the other end. Anna picked it up with her sticky, scale-covered hands. “See?”

                “Anna, who taught you how to do that?” he asked, amazed.

                “Nobody! I made it up,” she said proudly. Anna held the fillet with one hand and the bloodied rock with the other and waited for him to praise her for the ingenious process she’d devised. She seemed un-phased by the killing and by the crying girl a few paces away.

                Sherlock wondered if he should be worried. He was secretly proud of her for figuring out how to do that—she was only five, after all—but he wondered if this was normal behavior. He looked over to where Lestrade’s girls were standing, the youngest still crying. All of them looked shocked at Anna’s actions.

                Sherlock swallowed, unsure of how to proceed. “Well, you know, those fish weren’t yours,” he said. “And…” he motioned over to the other girls. “Do you see how… erm… Lucy is crying?” Anna nodded. “That’s because she is sad that her fish are dead.”

                Anna looked skeptical. “They’re only fish!” she exclaimed.

                Sherlock couldn’t argue with her there. “I know, I know,” he tried to reason, for the both of them. He really shouldn’t be the one teaching her about normal human attachments. “But Lucy… _loved_ them… so she is upset that you killed them.”

                Anna glanced over at Lucy, then at the fish, then back at Sherlock. “Am I in trouble?” she asked, her voice shaking.

                “No, Anna,” he reassured her. “Just… you should…” Sherlock grit his teeth. He knew he should make her apologize; it was just, he didn’t really believe in apologies, except in extreme circumstances—and this far from qualified. _But, what would John do?_ Sherlock thought to himself, as he often did in situations like this. He sighed. _Of course, John would make her apologize._ John had always been so keen on following ridiculous social customs like that.

                Sherlock drew himself up. “You should apologize.”

                Anna stared at him for a moment, as if she were trying to decide if he was serious or not. He bit the inside of his cheek, cursing himself for not making her apologize more often. Luckily for him, however, she must have come to the conclusion that he meant it, because she spun around and went over to Lucy. “I’m sorry,” she said.

                Lucy looked at her and said nothing.

                “Lucy…” Lestrade warned.

                “It’s okay,” Lucy sniffed, clearly still angry and forcing herself to follow up with the fake response that went with the fake apology.

                However, Anna was satisfied. She walked back to Sherlock and looked for his commendation. “Good job,” he breathed, giving it to her. “Now let’s get you cleaned up.”

                Anna bent down and reluctantly began to gather the fish bodies.

                Sherlock coughed. “Just… erm… leave them.”

                “But _Sherlock_ ,” Anna whined, screwing up her face into the beginnings of a sob.

                “Now, now, none of that, come on,” he chided, grabbing her forearm to lead her back down the beach. She began a petulant wail that turned the heads of nearby sunbathers. “See you for that drink, eh?” Sherlock said, exasperated, to Lestrade as they passed the group of them.

                “What’s wrong with his back?” whispered the older girl, wrinkle-nosed and staring at the half-melted patches of sunscreen as the two of them made their way back to their blanket.

                Lestrade just shook his head.                  

***

                _Is this my fault?_

                Sherlock had been plagued by that question since they’d seen the news report. _Is this because I didn’t punish her enough? Is this because_ I _don’t have empathy? Did she learn this from_ me _? No,_ he thought. _She couldn’t have._ Because for all of Sherlock’s lack of feelings and complete disinterest of nearly everyone else’s, he was not okay with killing another person. He’d only done it once, and that was to protect John and Mary—and it had been a difficult decision, not just because of the threat of going to prison afterward. Taking another human life… that was a big deal. It was heavy.

                _Eleven._

                “Sherlock?” It was Molly, pushing open his door a little further. He hadn’t realized she was still in the flat.

                “Leave me,” he told her, his gaze remaining on his bedroom ceiling.

                Molly bit her lip. “Are you okay?”

                “No.”

                She swallowed. “What can I do?”

                “I believe I already said.”

                Sherlock heard the door close a moment later as Molly left the room. He sighed and whipped the covers up over his head.

                He really would have liked to blame Mycroft for the whole thing. Anna was a child, and Mycroft had exposed her to things that were way beyond her capacity for understanding. But as Mycroft had said, after they’d finally turned off the telly, the crime was supposed to be _clever_. Nowhere in the plan had it provisioned for Anna to kill anyone. She’d done that on her own.

                And then Molly had told them what happened that day after the movies, when Anna had stabbed the mugger. “She did without a second thought. And the look in her eyes…” Molly’s voice wavered.

                Sherlock felt sick. “What did you do to her, Mycroft?”

                “I didn’t do anything!” Mycroft retorted. “I didn’t brainwash her, I didn’t teach her to kill. We only ever did self defense and basic weapons training. I’ll admit, she had no qualms about harming other people…”

                “You knew this was inside of her,” Sherlock interrupted, raising his voice. “You knew who her father was… you knew she had this—this— _darkness_ , and you exploited it! You’ve completely destroyed her to get what you want. My God, Mycroft, don’t you see what you’ve done?”

                Mycroft sighed. “Sherlock, I’m sorry you’ve lost faith in her, but I have not. I still believe she will help us destroy Moriarty.”

                “Yes, yes, but at what cost, Mycroft?”

                Mycroft’s eyes burned bright with intensity. “At any cost, dear brother.”

                Sherlock was flabbergasted. He shook his head, in disgust. “Of all the things you’ve done, of all the terrible things, this one is the worst. You are no brother of mine.” Then he turned on his heel and marched into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

                And now he was lying on his mattress, his sheets and quilt over his head, breathing in the hot, thinning air trapped underneath. He brought them all off and down to his belly with a rush of wind, and sighed. He looked up at the ceiling again.

                “So? What do you think?” he asked the sky. “You think Mycroft is right? Do you think that Anna can do this? Or should I go after her?”

                Sherlock purposely kept his voice low, to avoid being heard by Molly—who he sensed was still standing directly outside the door. He didn’t care for her to know that he did this thing, every once in a while, when things got really hard… even though he didn’t believe in heaven, or souls, or ghosts, or anything like that… it was just a comfort, that’s all.

                “John, you know, it’s quite rude not to say anything when I’m asking such important questions,” Sherlock reprimanded the plaster above his head. “I don’t much like being ignored. Stop being such a tosser and tell me what to do!” He looked around to all of the corners of the ceiling, but nothing happened.

                “Please?” he whispered.

                This wasn’t really new for him, this habit of talking to John when he wasn’t actually there. He’d done it even _before_ John had died. “Do you just carry on talking when I’m away?” John had asked him, once, unbelieving. “I don’t know, how often are you away?” Sherlock had quipped, feeling rather exposed that John had caught him doing such a thing. When he was a child, it had been an imaginary friend that he’d spoken to, and quite often, and loudly, much to Mycroft’s glee (as it gave him more ammunition for teasing). And then they’d gotten Redbeard and Sherlock talked incessantly to him instead, a real thing, a real, living, breathing thing that would listen to him rant and rant and not be annoyed by it one bit. And then Redbeard had died, and that was… well, difficult. There had been no one for quite some time, after that, until Sherlock stopped caring about what other people thought and just started talking to anyone who was in the vicinity, regardless of whether or not they liked what he had to say (which they didn’t, usually).

                But then, there had been John.

                “Really? Nothing, again?” Sherlock asked the empty room, feeling the muscles in his throat contract. He swallowed down the emotion. “You just want me to think for myself, eh? You know I can do it? Well, I suppose I should thank you for believing in me.”

                Sherlock sat up and stretched over the bed. He knew what he had to do: of course he had to go after Anna. Barring the fact that the girl was thirteen years old and had no clue what she was doing, Sherlock was not going to let Moriarty take away another person he loved, even if it wasn’t part of his own plan. He supposed he had to face that villain, again, anyway. He supposed it was time. He’d always had it in the back of his mind, that this would happen, someday, but he’d been hoping it would never come, because the only thing he cared about any more was protecting Annalise Watson. And seeking out Moriarty was not a good way to do that.

                But now, he had no choice.

                Sherlock came out quietly from the bedroom and found Molly standing with her back to the door, trying to wipe her eyes and hide the fact that she was crying again. He suddenly felt guilty that he had been so short with her earlier, and turned her around to put his arms around her. She kissed his cheek, and he felt the spot where her lips had touched him tingle pleasantly. He bent his head and kissed her lips.

                “I’m going after her,” he murmured, when they broke apart.

                Molly nodded.

                “You can’t tell Mycroft.”

                She shook her head.

                “Molly,” Sherlock looked into her eyes, “wait for me here.” Molly’s eyes filled with tears yet again. “I _will_ come back. And I want you to be here, when I do.”

                Molly sighed and leaned in to kiss him once more. “Of course,” she whispered.


	20. Part Four: To Kill, and Kill, and Kill

                It had been easier than she’d thought. She’d run out of the museum and into an alleyway, and that’s when they’d grabbed her.

                At first she thought they were the police, and panicked—until they chloroformed her with a dirty rag. Her last thought before she passed out was, _God, I hope they’re working for Moriarty._ And they had been, because she was now standing on the sixth floor of an empty office building, across from the criminal mastermind himself.

 _He’s shorter than I thought_ ; that was her first realization.

                Her second was: _He’s much, much more frightening_.

                “So,” began Moriarty, rocking subtly on his feet, his hands behind his back. “Annalise Watson. Perhaps the last person I’d expect to see standing in front of me of her own free will. Not many people do that, you know. Most people are too scared.” His eyes flickered large and he came closer. Anna caught a scent of very strong cologne. “And you especially, Annalise. You must be very brave.”

                She said nothing.

                He began to circle her. “You certainly got my attention. All those people, dead! Such a gruesome way to die, too. But you don’t care about all that, do you, Anna? You are ruthless. A natural-born killer… quite like your mother,” he added.

                Anna looked at the ground, her heart beating faster.

                “And you’ve brought me a present!” Moriarty skipped over to a table that held the cape, crown, and scepter she’d stolen. He picked up the scepter. It was covered in dried blood, caked in the crevices and on the jewels. “ _So_ sentimental. You get that from Sherlock.”

                Anna gritted her teeth at hearing Sherlock’s name, but she kept her face neutral.

                “Go on, then,” said Moriarty, swinging out the scepter, pretending to fight in the air. “Tell me why you’ve come.”

                Anna looked at him, her eyes following him across the room, fighting invisible enemies. He was childish, in a way. She was struck by how much he reminded her of Sherlock.

                “I came because I found out the truth.”

                Moriarty stopped swinging the scepter and studied it up against the light. “Oh?” he asked, and looked back at her. “And what truth is that?”

                Anna’s dark eyes stared into his. “That you’re my father.”

                For a split second Anna thought she saw genuine surprise cross Moriarty’s expression. But it passed, and she wasn’t sure if she’d seen it at all. He lowered the scepter and walked over to her again. Anna felt more repulsed by him the closer he got. “Your… father,” he echoed, looking her up and down. “And who told you that?”

                “Does it matter?” Anna challenged.

                “Of course it matters, Anna.”

                She paused, wondering if she should tell the truth or a lie. “Mycroft,” she said, deciding.

                Moriarty stared at her, studying, tapping his chin with the end of the scepter. “My-croft,” he said. “Interesting.”

                “He wanted to help me,” Anna continued. She put more scorn in her voice. “Said I needed _therapy_. To get on top of it.” She narrowed her eyes, smirking.

                “On top of what?” asked Moriarty, cocking his head.

                Her smirk grew wider. “My urges.”

                Moriarty stood completely still, watching her. “Urges…”

                “To kill.”

                Moriarty began to smile. “And he assumed you got that from me?”

                Anna just looked at him.

                “I mean, you were born into a family of killers, Anna. Your mother, well, obviously…. And John, he’d killed in the war, and afterward, too. And Sherlock, he’s done as well, did you know that?”

                No, she didn’t know that.

                “Only once, so far, but I’m sure if given the chance he would love to put those long fingers around my neck…” Moriarty trailed off, then licked his lips and continued. “So, Mycroft told you I was your real father, and you came running to Papa. Upset you’ve been lied to your entire life? Looking for the family that you never had? Or wanting the freedom to… kill?” He stepped closer to her, staring into her eyes. “You _like_ killing, Anna? You like how powerful it makes you feel, taking the most important thing from another human being? It’s a bit like playing God, isn’t it?” He smiled and stepped away. “In that case, I’m going to give you a little welcome present. For the prodigal daughter.” He nodded to the guards behind Anna, and they disappeared for a moment. Then Anna heard scuffling behind her, and she turned around.

                And there, standing in front of her, gagged and held by Moriarty’s guards, were the three members of her band.

                Anna’s mind raced. How did Moriarty know who these people were? How did he find them? What had he done to them? Anna’s eyes settled on David’s, and she felt paralyzed with fear. _He wants me to kill them._ A test, isn’t that what Mycroft had said? Proof of loyalty. And here it was, standing in front of her.

                Moriarty was watching her carefully. “They’re Mycroft’s spies…. Did you know that? You thought they were your friends… and you don’t have many friends, do you Anna? But they were Mycroft’s spies all along. He sent them to befriend you, and watch you.”

                Clearly, Moriarty thought she didn’t know that these people were hired hands. And he didn’t know they _were_ actually her friends.

_Weren’t they?_

                Anna tried to control her breathing as she felt a stab of uncertainty. She thought carefully back to when she was in training, back to what it was like. These people could have hated her the whole time, could have ignored her, could have just given her music to play and never said a kind word, but they didn’t. They liked her. Mycroft had paid them to be in the band, yes, but he hadn’t paid them to be her friends. He hadn’t.

 _Had he?_ Anna thought suddenly. Had he also paid them to act like her friends? Had he paid David to… to… flirt with her? To build up her confidence, perhaps? She stared at him, trying to decide, and unable to do so. She didn’t know how to decipher what was real, and what was a lie.

 _Of course they were paid off_ , a little voice said, in the back of her head. _You think that anyone would_ _want_ _to be your friend? Please. Just look at your track record; nobody liked you before… what would make them like you now? Nothing, except cold, hard cash._

                “But now they don’t belong to Mycroft anymore. They’re yours,” said Moriarty, his eyes growing impossibly darker. “Kill them, Anna. Murder them. Let it all out, I want to see everything. I want to see who you really _are_.”

                A guard stepped forward and handed Anna a large, sharp hunting knife. She took it, staring at the blade, thinking up the scenarios in her head. She could try to kill her way out of there and rescue the others ( _What for?_ said the voice) but she doubted she would be able to do that; all of the guards had guns. And she wouldn’t be able to get to Moriarty, and he was the main objective—bringing him down, that was more important that anything.

                Alternatively, she could do what he asked. Kill these people.

 _It’s for a cause, anyway_ , she reasoned. _To bring down the most evil man in the world_. Isn’t that why she was okay with killing all of those museum guards? Moriarty thought it was because she liked to kill, but that wasn’t true. She was just playing a role; playing Moriarty’s daughter. That girl liked to kill, but she didn’t.

                Yet, wasn’t she actually Moriarty’s daughter? Maybe it was so easy for her to play the role because… because that’s who she really was.

                Anna swallowed and looked up at the faces of her band members. They were staring at her, silently pleading for her to help them, to do something other than gut them with the knife she held. She felt Moriarty’s gaze on her, waiting to see what she would do.

                _So what if I_ _do_ _like killing?_ Anna asked herself. _It will make things easier. It will make it easier to lie about why I really wanted to join Moriarty’s side. It’s a lie, based on the truth._

                _Plus, they rather deserve to die,_ said the voice.

                Anna stepped up to the first member, Sam, and stabbed him forcefully in the chest. She stared him down, watching his wide, surprised eyes lose their light as he died. She pulled out the knife, and the guard who was holding him let him fall to the floor.

                She turned to the next member, Heidi. Heidi was whimpering, crying, struggling, shaking her head.

                “Shut up,” growled Anna. “Or I’ll make you.”

                Heidi cried harder, and Anna drove the knife into her heart—but she pulled it out too quickly this time, and blood shot out of the wound as the heart beat its last, squirting Anna in the face. She wiped it off slowly and looked with disgust at the dead girl. “Bitch,” she spat.

                She saw Moriarty twitch out of the corner of her eye. “Delicious,” he murmured in wonderment. “Simply delicious. Now the last one, Anna.”

                Anna stepped in front of David. He was calm, staring at her without fear. She looked into his eyes and suddenly felt a surge of bitterness through her heart. _He doesn’t think I’ll do it_ , she realized.

                He winked at her.

                She replied by swinging the knife across his neck, slitting it wide open. His eyes bugged out and choking sounds came from his throat. The guard dropped him and he thrashed on the ground, dying. “Slower, for you,” said Anna, standing over him and wiping the knife on her hip. “For your cheek.”

                She looked up at Moriarty. She felt as powerful and fearless as she’d felt in her whole life.

                Moriarty put his hands on either side of his face and shook his head in awe. “Spectacular. Simply amazing.” He flung his arms out from his head and twirled around. “Guards,” he sang, stopping his twirl.

                “Seize her.”

                And before Anna could react, two strong guards were behind her, grabbing her arms, twisting the one until she dropped the knife. She struggled and looked over at Moriarty, in shock.

                “Anna, you should know how surprised I am. I don’t often become surprised, you see, because I’m usually smarter than everyone, and I know what they’re going to do even before they think of doing it. But now, I am surprised.”

                He walked over to the table to replace the scepter and pick up the crown.

                “I told John Watson and Sherlock Holmes that I was your father, thirteen years ago on the day I killed John. It was a little extra torture for John, a little delicious morsel of information; not only had his wife lied to him and seduced him, but she’d also cheated on him, with _me_. He was so incredibly upset, it was beautiful.” Moriarty petted the soft velvet of the crown.

                “A complete lie, though,” he said. “It sort of came to me in the moment, a stroke of genius. _What can I do to hurt John even more?_ I asked myself. Because, you know, every time I hurt John, it hurt Sherlock. And how I _love_ to hurt Sherlock.” Moriarty sighed fondly at the memories. “It didn’t matter that it wasn’t true. We were gone before anyone found out that I was lying. But Anna,” he said with an amused chuckle, “I am most certainly not your father.”

                Anna had forgotten how to breathe.

                “But what I can’t figure out,” continued Moriarty, “is why Mycroft kept up the lie? I’m positive they did a paternity test when they got back to London. They would have found out the truth, that you actually were John’s daughter.” He shook his head. “I’m stumped, I really am. It’s so delightful! How refreshing!” He giggled again. “What is his endgame? Oh Mycroft, you silly, silly man. A man with a plan. What is your plan?"

                Moriarty turned back to Anna, who had slumped in the arms of the guards. Tears were falling from her eyes as she looked at the bodies of her three band mates, realizing that _they_ hadn’t manipulated her at all; it was Moriarty who’d done that. And Mycroft. _Mycroft lied to me_ , thought Anna. _And now I’m trapped, I’ve got no leverage. They’re going to kill me. They just_ _are, like_ _they killed John, and it will destroy Sherlock. I’ve let him down, I’ve ruined everything._ For the first time in many months, she felt like the child she was. “Why did you make me kill them?” she asked, heartbroken.

                The criminal came and put his mouth right over her ear, so that she felt his hot, damp breath on her face. “Because I _could_ ,” he whispered.

                Anna closed her eyes and cried, feeling as if the world had broken open and swallowed her whole.        

                “So sorry, Anna, that you got caught in the middle of this,” apologized Moriarty, not an ounce of remorse in his voice.

                She opened her eyes. “What are you going to do?”

                Moriarty placed the crown on his head and smiled a wicked smile. “I’m going to show them all who’s king,” he told her.

                Then, he curtsied.


	21. Part Four: To Kill, and Kill, and Kill

                Something didn’t smell right.

                Molly was not the smartest person in the world, nor the most observant, but she was perceptive in her own way; she could read people’s reactions. Kind of funny that she worked with inanimate bodies all day but still had an acute sense of the emotions in animated ones. Maybe that was what helped her, working in the morgue; she was not constantly inundated with other people’s lives, so when she saw a live person, she was able to notice things that other people were desensitized to.

                Whatever the reason, Molly noticed that there was something wrong with Mycroft’s reactions to the recent turn of events. After Sherlock had retreated to his bedroom and slammed the door, Mycroft had rolled his eyes without an air of concern. “Always so dramatic,” he’d said. “Honestly, he should have been a thespian instead of a detective.” Then he’d looked at Molly and smiled smugly. “Do let me know if he does anything… _rash_ ,” he’d instructed, almost as if he expected it to happen, and turned to pick up his umbrella before walking out of the flat without waiting for confirmation.

                If there was one thing that never failed to worry Mycroft, it was Sherlock’s feelings. But Mycroft seemed uninterested this time—in fact, he had seemed uninterested throughout the whole ordeal. It was as if hurting Sherlock was actually part of his plan. It was bizarre, and not in the usual “Holmes’ unorthodox-response-to-human-feelings” way, either (which she was all too familiar with). No, this was something else. It smelled fishy. And it got her thinking, as she waited in Sherlock’s flat with nothing else to do….

                There was nothing that convinced Molly that Anna was their best bet in bringing down Moriarty. Perhaps Anna _was_ a natural killing machine, but mentally, she was no match for Jim Moriarty. And that wasn’t even because she was so young (which didn’t help her, anyway) and trusting. She just wasn’t smart enough. That’s not to say she wasn’t intelligent, even above-averagely intelligent, but Molly had been around geniuses far too long to mistake them for normal people, or the other way round. She’d seen Anna grow up from a little girl, and she was in no way on par with Mycroft’s or Sherlock’s mental prowess. Or Moriarty’s. In fact, she most reminded Molly of… John. Strange, that the one person Anna was not actually related to and had not grown up knowing was the one she was most like.

                Yet Mycroft seemed wholly convinced of Anna’s abilities to fool the most intelligent criminal in the world. Molly doubted Mycroft had seen something that she and Sherlock hadn’t, so the only explanation was that Mycroft was using Anna for an entirely different purpose. _An assassin?_ Molly thought. No, Anna had seemed quite convinced that she was there to get information from Moriarty. And again, Anna would have to be very, very smart to get into a situation where she could kill the man. Moriarty simply wouldn’t let himself be in a situation like that; he was very clever, and very careful. And Mycroft knew that….

                And then Molly remembered something Sherlock had said on the roof of St. Bart’s a few days earlier. That if Mycroft was apprised of the hit on Anna, he would probably use Anna as bait.

                _Bait._

                Molly briefly got an image of a worm on a fishing hook and felt her stomach turn. Mycroft had put Anna there, to catch Moriarty... but how was Anna being with Moriarty going to catch him? Hadn’t Mycroft just effectively sent Anna in to be slaughtered? How could he trap Moriarty when his bait had fallen off the hook and right into Moriarty’s mouth?

                And then Molly had an epiphany. Anna wasn’t bait for Moriarty.

                She was bait for _Sherlock_.

                Molly whipped out her mobile and dialed Mycroft’s number.

                Thirty minutes later, Mycroft stepped into 221B, his face a picture of condescendence. Molly was sure he could tell by the urgency in her voice when she’d rung and the livid expression on her face now that she’d figured it out. She was standing in the middle of the room, fists at her sides, clutched and shaking in anger.

                “You’ve surprised me, Molly,” he said, walking past her to sit down in John’s chair. He crossed his legs and looked up at her with his usual smirk. “I never would have thought that you’d be the first to figure it out.”

                “How _can_ you,” Molly accused in quiet fury. “How can you use people like that? Like they are your puppets, your playthings, to be manipulated for your own amusement? These are people, Mycroft.” Angry tears sprang into her eyes. “Like you and me.”

                Mycroft sighed heavily. “Molly, do sit down,” he told her, motioning to Sherlock’s chair. Molly remained standing. “Quickly, before you give yourself an aneurism.”

                She reluctantly moved to the chair and sat down.

                Mycroft began. “First of all, Molly, no one is like me. No one. I am a person, but I am not 'people.' Most people are extremely narrow-minded, they can’t see that the world extends much farther past the person they kiss goodnight. Much, much farther.

                “Second of all, I am not the least bit amused by any of this. But I saw an opportunity, and I took it, because I can see beyond the people in my life. The opportunity was one that Moriarty had, ironically, given me himself, when he lied about being Anna’s real father.”

                “Wait a moment,” interrupted Molly. “You mean, Anna isn’t Moriarty’s daughter after all?”

                “No,” confirmed Mycroft. He looked thoughtful for a moment. “I suppose he said it because he wanted to hurt John just a little more, but it was completely untrue; we did a paternity test after the fact to prove it. Yet when I saw the results of that test, that John was actually Anna’s father, I had a decision to make.

                “For whatever reason, Jim Moriarty has it out for Sherlock—he has it out for most of humanity, but Sherlock especially—and therefore, Moriarty is blind to him in certain ways. And though I don’t like to admit it, my brother is cleverer than I when it comes to combating Moriarty; he is the only one who can destroy him. However, for a myriad of reasons, he has not been motivated to do so—until now.

                “Sherlock is fond of speaking about the motivational power of love, but what most people don’t realize is that love and hate are very closely related. There is no one my brother loves more than Annalise Watson, and there is no one he hates more than Jim Moriarty. I knew that to connect the two of them would be an advantage in some way, some day. So I lied to him. I told him that the results confirmed that Anna was Moriarty’s child. And I found a chance to use that lie, to use Anna to bring Sherlock and Moriarty together, so that Moriarty may be destroyed, once and for all.”

                Molly’s mouth had fallen open, disbelieving Mycroft’s massive capacity for deception. “But… your own brother. Didn’t you care at all about his feelings? About what would happen to _him?”_

                Mycroft looked at her, his face hard. “I love Sherlock, Molly, of course I do. But there are greater things at play. There is a greater thing to protect than my brother; that is, the whole of humanity. Sherlock was never able to see that, but I’ve always seen it, and all that I’ve done in my life has been to preserve it.

                “Jim Moriarty is the largest threat to human kind that I have ever witnessed. I will sacrifice my brother to obliterate that threat. I will sacrifice his lover, his daughter, his friends. I would sacrifice myself if I thought that I’d do more to protect the world dead than alive. Fortunately for me, that is not the case.” Mycroft allowed himself a small smirk of self-satisfaction.

                When Mycroft had finished, Molly didn’t know whether he was right or wrong. It made her extremely uncomfortable, to on some level _agree_ that there should be sacrifice for a greater purpose. She felt it was a slippery slope. How far would Mycroft go to protect the world? How far _should_ he go? Molly didn’t want to know; the problem was too big to fathom. Looking at Mycroft sitting in the chair opposite, she was suddenly struck with a sense of pity for him; in his position, he had to consider this issue constantly and make decisions based upon it. Maybe it wasn’t up to her to judge him for those decisions… and maybe that was a relief.

                All she could do now was hope to God that at the end of the day, Sherlock and Anna came home alive.


	22. Part Four: To Kill, and Kill, and Kill

                A bright light hit the prisoner’s face, making his eyes squint and water. He put up a hand to shield them from the glare.

                “Get up,” said a gruff voice.

                No easy task. He did it slowly, clutching the concrete wall for support. “Hurry it up!” shouted the voice.

                The prisoner scowled at the guard. “You try doing this after you’ve been sitting for twelve hours straight. And with a gimp knee to boot!” The guard didn’t respond, just grabbed him by the arm and led him out of the darkness. “I suppose it wouldn’t do any good to ask where we’re going now?” the prisoner mumbled. The guard remained silent, his face staring straight ahead. “No, it never does,” he sighed in frustration. He tried to keep up, but his limp was making it difficult. “Could you slow down a bit?”

                He was brought down a long, narrow corridor, heading toward a door at the very end. As they got closer to it, he heard voices on the other side. He and the guard stopped just outside the door and waited. “Are we going to go in, or what?” the prisoner asked.

                “We wait for the signal,” was all the guard said in reply.

                The prisoner snorted. “Not exactly the conversationalist, are you?”

                And then, through the door, the prisoner heard Moriarty’s voice. His whole body stiffened at the sound of it—he hadn’t been brought to Moriarty in years.

                “You know,” Moriarty was saying, “I thought to myself, ‘Jim, you’re not an unreasonable man. You’re not a selfish man. If you’re going to take away his little girl, you could at least give him something in return.’ So, I propose a trade.”

                “I will not trade her for anything,” said another voice, crisply.

                Behind the door, the prisoner was rooted to the spot where he stood. He stopped breathing. _That voice_.

                “Well, you are free to decline my offer, of course. But I’m going to keep her one way or the other, so wouldn’t you at least like to see what I’m willing to part with in exchange?”

                There was a moment of silence. Then footsteps, and three knocks on the door. The guard opened it and led the prisoner through to the next room.

                There was a gasp.

                The gasp came from a small, dark-haired, teenage girl who was standing next to a smirking Moriarty. Her face was gaunt and tear-stained and held such a sense of shock that the prisoner immediately felt guilty for not knowing who she was. She certainly knew _him_. But in the next second, all of that faded into oblivion. Because the prisoner only saw one thing:

                The glorious—

                The beautiful—

                pale-eyed—

                curly-haired—

                impressively tall—

                (and impossibly intelligent—)

                figure of Sherlock Holmes, who was gaping at him, hopelessly trying to comprehend the vision in front of him.

                “ _John_.”

                The name edged out of Sherlock’s lips, unconsciously said in exhale. Like an involuntary reflex, like when John used to work in the surgery and tap that silly little hammer in just the right spot on people’s knees and watch the kick that came after.

                “So,” continued Moriarty, “do you want him? Or should I just dispose of him? I can do that for you, free of charge.” He motioned for one of his armed guards to come over.

                “No,” croaked Sherlock.

                “No? Whatever you say,” replied Moriarty. He smiled evilly. “Enjoy your end of the bargain. I know I will.” Then he and the girl and the guards marched out of the room and down the hallway that John had come through a few minutes earlier. The door creaked pathetically as it swung back on its hinges, finally shutting with a deep, echoing _clunk_.

                And once it was closed, there was nothing but John and Sherlock, staring at each other in the thickest silence either of them had ever experienced.     


	23. Part Five: Phantom Limb

                “Come on then, get your coat,” Sherlock instructed a sulking seven-year-old Anna.

                “But I don’t _want_ to go!” she whined in her high-pitched, little-girl voice. Mrs. Hudson’s eyes flickered to her and back to Sherlock.

                “Nonsense, of course you want to go,” he dismissed. “We’re off to see your father, we do it every year on Christmas.” He wrapped his scarf around his neck and took his own coat off the rack.

                “I don’t _care_. It’s cold outside. I want to play with Lyra!” Anna ran to the couch and picked up her new doll, just opened that morning.

                “You may play with her when we return,” Sherlock retorted, sternly. “Now _put on your coat_.”

                “No!” she shouted, crossing her arms.

                He swooped down on her, losing his temper. _“You will do as I say!”_

                She burst into tears and fled to her room.

                Sherlock looked stunned for a moment, then turned, wide-eyed, to Mrs. Hudson. The landlady sighed. “Oh Sherlock, the poor child doesn’t understand. She doesn’t love him like you did, dear. She doesn’t even remember him.”

                “So?” protested Sherlock, put-out.

                “So… you can’t expect her to want to go visit the grave of a man she has no emotional attachment to, especially on Christmas day. I can stay home with her, you go, love.” Mrs. Hudson smiled sadly.

                Sherlock thought about it. Why was it so important that Anna go with him? Of course he wanted her to grow up with a firm knowledge of who John was, what a brave and wise and kind man he had been. Sherlock had impressed those facts upon her whenever he could, setting up pictures of John in her room, telling her stories about their adventures together. She lovedthose stories. Yet he also… he wanted her to _care._ To feel what it was like to have the force of John in her life, and to _miss_ it, the way that Sherlock often did. John deserved to be missed.

                But Mrs. Hudson was right—despite all of his efforts, Anna didn’t care about John Watson. _Well,_ he resolved _, I’ll just have to try harder._ He’d have to play with her emotions, somehow, put something she did care about at the center of it all, then try to transfer those feelings to John…

 _Tap, tap_ on Anna’s door. “Anna? May I come in?” Sherlock opened the door and found Anna sitting on the bed, her face wet with tears. “I apologize for raising my voice,” he began, walking over and sitting on the edge of the mattress. “Do you forgive me?”

                Anna sniveled, not meeting his eyes. “Yes.”

                Sherlock smiled a little, then turned and looked down at his hands. “You know, I loved your father very much. He was the best man I ever knew. And I like to go and visit him, sometimes, because sometimes I… feel sad, without him.” He looked back at Anna, who was silently absorbing his words. “I know it isn’t fair for me to ask you to visit his grave, to pay your respects to a man you don’t remember, even if that man _was_ your father. It’s nothing but a… an exercise in imagination, for you. But…” Sherlock took a deep breath, steeling himself for the truly uncomfortable part, “it would mean a lot to me if you went. Because if you are there with me, Anna, I’m… I’ll be… _comforted_.”

                Anna was only seven years old, but she was highly perceptive. He had no doubt that she would understand what he’d said, and that it would result in her going to the cemetery with him— because what Anna _did_ care about was Sherlock, and he’d let her see how much he wanted her to go. It was one of those subtle manipulations that people performed on a daily basis, much of the time without entirely realizing it. _Guilt tripping_ , he recalled, though he didn’t much like the sound of it. It sounded rather base.

                Sherlock gave Anna a few more moments to process, then bent his head to catch her eye. “So? What do you say? Will you go with me?”

                She looked up at him. “Okay,” she agreed.

                He smiled. “That’s my girl.”

***

                Sherlock thought he ought to feel something. Of all the times in his life to have a human feeling, this should have trumped them all. But somehow, he felt nothing. _Shock_ , though Sherlock. _Perhaps I’m in shock._

                John stood there, staring at him, the concern for his wellbeing evident in John’s expression. And the emotion of seeing Sherlock again, the trembling, the tears, it was all visible on John’s face. _That’s how I should look right now_ , thought Sherlock. _I’m the one who thought_ he _was dead._

“Sherlock,” John spoke, and the familiarity of his voice was like a slap in the face. Sherlock thought he’d forgotten how John sounded, but he hadn’t. No, he certainly hadn’t. He blinked several times, his mind racing, trying to understand Moriarty’s motivation. Why was John still alive? Why had Moriarty given him back? What did Moriarty want with Anna? And where was Mary, in all of this?

                “Sherlock.” John said it again, and took a step towards him. Sherlock noticed him limping badly on his right leg. _That’s no psychosomatic limp_ , he thought, remembering how John’s knee had been crushed all those years ago.

                Sherlock stepped backwards in reply.

                John put up his hands as if he were approaching a wild animal about to bolt the other direction. “Sherlock, I know this is a shock—“ He took another step, and Sherlock backed up again. “Okay,” said John. He stood still. “Okay, I’m not coming any closer.”

                Sherlock looked him up and down. Thinner, by at least fifteen pounds. Several more wrinkles, especially around the eyes and mouth. Hair shorter than the last time he saw him. And grayer. _Older._

                _Has Moriarty turned him? Is he a spy now? Can he be trusted? What the hell is Moriarty’s goal in all this?_ Sherlock couldn’t figure it out. His brain was too busy trying to process that he lived in a world where John still existed. “You stay there,” he said, warningly.

                John nodded and raised his hands a little higher.

                Sherlock pulled out his mobile and dialed Mycroft. “We have a situation,” he said into the phone, his eyes never leaving John. “I’m going to need an extraction. Yes, for two. No. No, someone… else. Just bloody get here!” He hung up the phone. “Mycroft is coming.”

                John looked terribly heartbroken. “Do you not want to talk to me, then?” he asked softly. “That’s alright. I don’t have to talk, Sherlock.”

                “Oh, you are going to talk,” answered Sherlock, curtly. _Am I angry? Why am I angry?_ “Just not to me.”

                The wait for Mycroft’s extraction team was nearly unbearable. Sherlock just kept staring at John, and John at Sherlock, in excruciating silence, in which no viable theories on why John was alive came to Sherlock’s mind. And he had a thousand questions, he knew, but none of them were surfacing. _That’s alright_ , he thought. _I’ll leave the questioning to the government._

                John’s eyes were soft and he looked as if he were about to speak more than once while they waited, but was using all of his self control to hold his tongue. Finally, he couldn’t stop himself: “Can I put my hands down?” he asked.

                Sherlock gave him a sharp nod in response, and John lowered his arms to his sides. He observed John’s old tremor, again, in his left hand, making the fingers squeeze in on themselves every so often.

                John swallowed and gazed toward the door, the one he’d come out of previously. “Who was that girl?” he asked, suddenly, turning back. “Moriarty… he said she was your daughter. Do you…. Did you…” He looked a bit wild. “Who’s her mother?”

                Sherlock was totally blindsided by the question. He supposed he’d spent so long being Anna's _not_ -father that he’d never really thought that he could actually… be one. “Erm, she wasn’t my daughter. Isn’t,” he corrected, flustered. “She’s yours... I mean, Moriarty's. And Mary’s. That was Anna. Annalise.”

                John’s mouth fell open. He looked back at the door again. “Anna...” His eyes filled with tears. “Oh my God.”

                To Sherlock’s horror, John began to cry. He buried his face in his hands and his shoulders shook, and he started making little sniffing and gasping sounds. Sherlock didn’t know what to do—he’d never seen John cry before. And then John’s legs gave out and he sat, weakly, on the floor, drawing his knees to his chest and putting his face into them. He continued to cry for some time, while Sherlock just stood in front of him, completely at a loss to understand anything that was happening. He began to have a nasty, unsettling feeling that perhaps this was all a dream.

                But then, he heard the faint beat of helicopter blades.

                Mycroft’s expression as he stepped out of the helicopter put to rest any doubts Sherlock had about the reality of the moment; not even _he_ could have imagined that amount of shock on his brother’s face. Mycroft’s jaw went slack and he stood there frozen, underneath the slowing propellers, while the back-up team inside waited for instruction. It was quite unlike Mycroft not to give orders, not to have a plan ready. Sherlock felt some sort of satisfaction at seeing that, and relief, that he wasn’t the only one out of his element.

                “Mycroft,” John spoke, looking up from his knees.

                Mycroft snapped to attention and turned to the crew behind him. “Detain the one on the ground,” he ordered. Two men got out of the aircraft and went to a very offended-looking John, each gripping an arm and helping (or dragging, more like) him back to the helicopter. The blades began to spin again, and Mycroft turned to Sherlock. “Anna?” he asked.

                Sherlock shook his head.

                “Well, then,” Mycroft began, and then frowned, realizing that for once in his life he’d nothing to say. He blinked and shrugged his shoulders, in a very un-Mycroft sort of way, and nodded back toward the craft. “Get in, I suppose.”


	24. Part Five: Phantom Limb

                Life seemed to be full of waiting lately, which was incredibly dull—especially for Sherlock, as his mind worked faster than anyone else’s and was not accustomed to resting for long periods of time in limbo. He was waiting on a wooden bench in the long, poorly-lit hallway where Mycroft had deposited him after they’d gotten off the helicopter and John had been taken away to be questioned. “Questioned,” Sherlock didn’t know if that was the right word for it, because it had been nearly ten hours and there had been no sign of anyone. How many questions could they possibly have?

_Thirteen years-worth, I suppose._

                Sherlock had planned to use the time alone to deduce. He first needed to figure out why John was alive; that was the present problem. He reasoned that if Moriarty hadn’t killed John, he certainly wouldn’t kill Anna, so Sherlock could assume her safe for the time being… _except for the hit_ , a small voice said in the back of his brain. Except for Mary’s hit.

                Where _was_ Mary? She hadn’t been in the warehouse, and there had been no mention of her whatsoever. Perhaps Mary didn’t send that dead girl to the morgue after all…. _No, it had to have been her._ The girl was shot in the same place that Mary had shot Sherlock; it was a message, and one specifically for him. To frighten him. And it had certainly done that, had made him decide to go after them—

 _“Maybe that’s what they want you to do,”_ Molly had said. _“Did you ever think of that?”_

                “Well, we’re through,” proclaimed Mycroft, jolting Sherlock out of his reverie. He strode down the hall to where Sherlock was sitting.

                “And?”

                “He’s been cleared,” said the elder brother. “Appears to have been imprisoned for the entire time. He knows nothing about Moriarty’s plan.”

                Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. _Wonderful_ , he thought bitterly. He supposed he should have been happy, but the fact that John didn’t know anything was entirely unhelpful.

                Mycroft walked round the side of the bench and sat next to his brother. “Have you a theory on why John was kept alive?”

                “No,” answered Sherlock. “Have you?”

                “No,” Mycroft echoed.

                Sherlock gritted his teeth in frustration. That was unhelpful, as well. For God’s sake, they were both _Holmeses_ , one of them ought to have a damn theory.

                Mycroft swallowed. “I didn’t anticipate this, Sherlock—”

                “Clearly.” Sherlock just wanted him to shut up now, leave him to his thoughts. He was still angry with him, anyway, for involving Anna in the whole mess. “When will he be ready to leave?”

                “Soon, I should imagine. Are you taking him back to Baker Street?”

                Sherlock unsteepled his fingers and stood up. He hadn’t thought about it, but that was the only logical place to take him; John needed to be kept under close watch. Sherlock didn’t buy that John knew absolutely nothing about Moriarty’s plan… there had to be _some_ reason that he was kept alive and then released. “Yes,” he answered.

                Mycroft sighed heavily. “Will you be alright, Sherlock?”

                Sherlock turned to his brother, noticing that his expression was not unlike one of concern. In response to it, he gave him the coldest glare he’d ever given anyone. “What would _you_ care?”

                A door opened then, distracting the brothers from each other, and they saw John walk out alone, holding a manila envelope and looking very, very tired. Sherlock walked to meet him. “Have they released you, then?”

                John nodded wearily. “Yes. They must have determined that _nine hours_ of questioning was sufficient—“

                “I suppose you’re hungry,” Sherlock interrupted. He needed to get John out of there, so that he could start his own line of inquiry.

                John’s annoyance melted away, and his mouth considered a hopeful smile. “Actually, I am, yes.”

                Sherlock turned on his heel and began walking toward the exit.

                John blinked. “Right,” he said, starting after him. “Mycroft,” he acknowledged as he hurried past.

                Mycroft’s gaze silently followed them both.

***

                “So, what’s the plan?” asked John, not touching his plate of spaghetti.

                John had suggested Angelo’s immediately after he’d caught up to Sherlock, and Sherlock had agreed without thinking; but now that they were there, it was so surreal that Sherlock greatly regretted the decision. It was hard enough accepting the simple truth that John was back alive without piling on heaps of fond memories of the two of them eating pasta and conversing animatedly about the latest case they were solving. Sherlock twirled his noodles around his fork and took a bite, trying to force the memories out of his head so that his brain could work properly. “Plan for what?” he questioned.

                John looked a little bewildered. “For rescuing Anna, of course.”

                Sherlock stopped moving his fork and stared. He supposed it wasn’t strange for John to be concerned about Anna, but wasn’t he… how could he… didn’t he want to, say, _talk_ first? Wasn’t he going to tell Sherlock where he’d been for all those years, what he’d been doing? What was he, waiting for Sherlock to _ask?_

                Sherlock glanced down and observed that John still hadn’t touched his food. “I thought you were hungry,” he remarked, resuming his fork-twirling. He clamped his teeth down on a big spool of pasta. _It’s a wonder that I have an appetite at all… shock must make one very hungry_. “Well, if you’re not going to eat, why don’t you tell me where you’ve been for the last thirteen years?” he said nonchalantly, after swallowing the mouthful. _Fine, John. Have it your way._

                To his surprise, John ignored him. “You do have a plan, don’t you? To save Anna?”

                Sherlock didn’t respond. No, he didn’t have a plan, short of his recurring fantasy of finding wherever she was and mowing down every soul in the room with a machine gun. The silence dragged on and soon, John’s expression grew cross. “You don’t trust me,” he stated.

                Sherlock put down his fork and met John’s glare. “No,” he said quietly. “I don’t. I don’t understand why you were kept alive for thirteen years, nor why you’ve been… returned.”

                “You wish I was actually dead, then?” John accused, raising his voice.

                “I’d rather you be dead than Moriarty’s spy.”

                John was so upset that he didn’t speak for a full five seconds. “That’s what you think? That I’m—I’m—Christ, Sherlock. This isn’t fair. You’re punishing me, and it’s not fair. I didn’t _ask_ to be taken prisoner. I didn’t _ask_ —“ He took a deep breath and stared at his plate, and Sherlock could tell he was resisting the urge to throw the whole thing at his face. “What do you want from me? You want me to sit and tell you the whole story, all thirteen years, from beginning to end? How I was—“ He stopped again, and took a few more deep breaths to quiet himself. “Or do you just want to hate me for a little while? I remember... I was angry, too, when I learned you’d faked your death. But you have no reason to be angry with me— _I_ _didn’t choose this_.”

                _Logical_ , thought Sherlock. _He makes very good points._ He stared down at his plate of half-eaten spaghetti and realized it no longer looked appetizing. He put down his spoon and fork. “Let’s go back to Baker Street and talk there,” he suggested.

                John’s anger evaporated, and his eyes lit up. “Baker Street…”

***

                John was beside himself on the cab ride to 221B. He kept pointing at things and saying “Would you look at that!?” or “Just as I remembered it.” Sherlock ignored him, for the most part, lost in his own thoughts. When they finally got to the flat, it seemed as if they’d been traveling for ages.

                Sherlock unlocked the door and John stepped in front of him, then turned around suddenly. “Mrs. Hudson, is she… has anyone told her….”

                The lights were out in her flat, so Sherlock suggested they visit her tomorrow. Anyway, judging by her reaction when _Sherlock_ came back from the dead, he thought he should to go down and break the news to her without John there. Otherwise, the poor woman would probably have a heart attack.

                Sherlock had started up the stairs with John following close behind when he heard sounds coming from his flat, walking and banging around, and he thought he smelled… what was that, chocolate biscuits? Was Mrs. Hudson up at this hour? Sherlock unlocked the door and opened it wide.

                Molly Hooper was standing directly in front of him, wearing one of his shirts—and nothing else—holding a tray of fresh-baked biscuits. “Mycroft told me you’d be back tonight,” she said, her cheeks growing slightly pink.

                _Oh my God_ , thought Sherlock, his stomach dropping to the floor. _I forgot. I told her to wait here for me._

_I forgot._

                Molly must have noticed his expression, because her shy smile quickly faded at the look on his face. Then John, slow with his limp, stepped up the last step and out from behind. “Oh!” she shrieked, flipping the tray in the air and sending chocolate all over the entryway. She put it in front of her waist to cover her bottom half. And then she recognized who was standing beside Sherlock, and dropped it, her mouth wide open.

                “Oh my God.”

                John was also staring open-mouthed, at the sight of Molly in Sherlock’s shirt.

                “Oh my God.” Molly looked, wide-eyed, at Sherlock.

                “Molly,” Sherlock began. “I—“

                “Oh my _God_.” Molly turned back to John. “ _John?_ ”

                “Yeah,” said John in reply. “Hi. Uh… hi. Apparently Mycroft forgot to mention I’d be with him…” he trailed off.

                A beat passed, and then Molly began to stutter. “Well, I—I apologize. I don’t know what to think, I—John. My God. You’re alive.” She said it neither happily nor unhappily. “I would hug you, but…” she awkwardly pulled the shirt down in an attempt to hide her body. “Just, wow. Oh my God.” She looked to Sherlock for help, for some idea of how she was supposed to react. Unfortunately, Sherlock had nothing to give her.

                “Well,” she said, her gaze going back and forth between them. “I’m going to go.” She spun around and headed to Sherlock’s bedroom.

                “Molly…” Sherlock began again, not sure what he was going to say. He followed her into the room, where she was putting on her trousers, and decided an apology was still his best bet. “Molly, I’m sorry. I didn’t… I forgot…”

                Molly finished buttoning her trousers and grabbed her shirt, balling it up in her hands. “I’ll bring back yours later,” she said, distractedly. Her expression was one of shock and… sadness. She looked sad. “Just…” she put her hand on Sherlock’s arm, then stiffened and finished up by patting it. “Just ring me.” She swallowed uncomfortably and nodded once, then turned to walk out of the bedroom.

                As soon as she was gone, Sherlock went to his chair and collapsed in it. _Perfect,_ he thought. _Just what I needed_.

                John moved to stand in front of him. “What the hell was that?” he asked. “How can she… what was she thinking?”

                Sherlock looked up at him, his brow furrowing.

                “The poor girl,” John continued, shaking his head, “doesn’t she know by now…”

                “Know what?”

                John stared at him for a moment. “That you’re _gay_ ,” he said, finally.

                Sherlock blinked. “Who said anything about gay?”

                John began to gape. “Well… I… it… it was pretty obvious, wasn’t it?” he said, turning red. Then he laughed. “What, you’re not saying that you… you and Molly…” Sherlock just looked at him, and John’s eyes grew very wide. _“Jesus_ ,” John swore, and walked over to the mantle, putting his hands on either side of it to steady himself. “Jesus, Sherlock—“

                John froze as he caught sight of the photo in front of him, the one of him and Anna when she was a baby. And then his eyes moved to the other pictures of her, at various ages, holding sports trophies, playing violin, buried in the sand at the beach…. Suddenly, he turned around and made for the stairs. “John?” asked Sherlock, as John ascended to the next floor. He hopped up and went after him. “John, where are you—“

                Sherlock watched from the bottom of the steps as John flung Anna’s bedroom door open and stared at the sight in front of him. Sherlock knew what he was seeing, he knew the state of Anna’s room: clothes strewn all over, stuffed animals on her bookshelf, posters of pop bands covering the walls. John sat down, right in the middle of the hallway, absorbing it all.

                Sherlock finished climbing the stairs and stood in front of John’s view of the bedroom. John’s gaze remained where it was as he shook his head. “Bloody hell,” he swore, quietly. “She lives here. You…”

                John gazed up at Sherlock, his eyes shining with some emotion that Sherlock decided he didn’t want to behold. Instead he turned and looked into the bedroom, too. Yes, it was just as he remembered. Even the photographs on her dresser were still fallen over, from when he’d slammed David’s head onto it. Sherlock moved forward and picked one up, setting it upright. It was one of John and him, from John’s wedding.

                “You took care of her,” John said, weakly.

                Sherlock turned around. “Of course I did.”

                “Of course you…” John trailed off, and leaned back against the wall, awestruck. “I don’t know what I thought, Sherlock. I don’t know what I thought would happen… certainly not that _you_ would become her father.”

                “I’m not her father,” Sherlock said, on reflex.

                John lifted his eyebrows skyward. “You’re the man who raised her. Of course you are.”

                Sherlock blinked at him. No, that wasn’t… that wasn’t right. Sherlock wasn’t a father, couldn’t be, he wasn’t capable of it. He’d raised Anna, yes, but John was always her father… according to what Sherlock had told her, anyway.

                “I need to go to bed,” John muttered, all of a sudden. He rubbed his hands over his face. “Yeah, I think I need to turn in for the night.”

                Sherlock found his voice. “You may stay in my room.”

                John’s head whipped up and searched his eyes fervently—Sherlock was a little stunned by the intensity. “Where are you going to sleep?” he asked, his voice noticeably higher than before.

                Sherlock frowned. “I will be on the sofa…”

                John dropped his gaze and nodded. “Right,” he said, clearing his throat. “Right.” He stood up, with difficulty, and then limped back down the stairs to Sherlock’s room. A moment later, the door closed.

                Sherlock let out a large sigh and glanced again around Anna’s room, the sight of it threatening to give him more unwelcome feelings. He quickly closed the door and went back downstairs.


	25. Part Five: Phantom Limb

                Sleep wasn’t going to come to him. Sherlock lay on the couch staring at the ceiling, fingers steepled under his chin, wishing he had a nicotine patch… or seven. His mind was in disarray, jumping from thought to unrelated thought, leapfrogging wildly as the clock ticked the passing of time well into the night.

                It finally settled on a memory: the memory of John’s funeral. They hadn’t had a body (surprise, surprise) but the forensics team had found enough “evidence” to conclude that John had been blown apart and incinerated in the explosion. Sherlock didn’t take a closer look at that evidence—he had been a bit preoccupied at the time with learning how to properly change a nappy.

                Because of the nature of John’s death and the length of time it took the forensics team to investigate, it was almost three weeks before John was officially “pronounced” dead. Sherlock remembered when Mycroft rang to tell him: he was holding Anna in the kitchen, she was crying, he was testing the heated formula on his wrist the way Mrs. Hudson had showed him, still unsure what was too hot and what was too cold—“It has to be body-temperature Sherlock, just imagine it came right out of a woman’s breast!” “I’d rather not, Mrs. Hudson.”—and had somehow found and extra hand to pick up the phone.

                “I thought you should know, John has been officially pronounced dead. I’ve already made funeral arrangements for this coming Saturday, I’ll have a car round nine o’clock to pick you up. Do let me know if you have any suggestions for the ceremony.”

                And that was that. Sherlock remembered feeling deflated at that moment, rather like a balloon, all the air in his lungs that he didn’t know he’d been holding onto had rushed out of him all at once. He remembered how heavy Anna had felt in his arms, then. He remembered that she’d stopped crying, and he’d tipped her back to feed her. She hadn’t complained. The formula was the perfect temperature.

                The funeral wasn’t anything like Sherlock expected. He was used to people coming out of the woodwork for such events—he’d been faintly amused at the number of people he’d seen from a distance at his own funeral—but the number of people at John’s was astounding. Sherlock had felt lost in the sea of mourners; except for Molly and Mrs. Hudson and his own parents, no one came up to him to apologize for his loss, to check on the baby. He suspected none of them even knew Anna _was_ John’s baby ( _well, and she isn’t_ , Sherlock kept having to remind himself). He’d gotten an awful lot of dirty looks throughout the ceremony as Anna either cried or babbled incoherently to him, much too loudly, as she didn’t yet have an awareness of her own volume. “Maybe you should take her outside for a few minutes,” an elderly woman in front of him tutted, turning around and giving him a harsh glare. Sherlock wanted to punch her in the face. He remembered thinking he’d finally lost it, that wanting to punch frail, old ladies in the face was probably an official sign that he’d cracked. He should have at least fought back by deducing something horrid about her… but instead, he’d gotten up and left for a couple minutes as she’d suggested.

                It was a military funeral, which was another unexpected thing. Sherlock didn’t think John would have much cared for the extravagance of it, but he supposed it was necessary given John’s history in the war. The empty coffin was buried in a military cemetery, as well, in one half of a double-plot section—the other half being for Mary, when she too passed away. Sherlock spent the remainder of the burial in a rage that that woman, who was in his mind just as responsible for John’s death as Moriarty, still had a place beside him after she died. “It’s for show, Sherlock, you know that,” Mycroft had whispered to him, as they lowered the coffin into the ground. “The fewer people who know, the better.”

                But what Sherlock remembered most about that day was not the funeral or burial, it was meeting John’s sister, after. Harry had slinked through the crowd as it dispersed, the top of her blond head weaving along at shoulder-height (she was short in stature, just as John had been), so that Sherlock didn’t see her until she was standing directly in front of them, her eyes bloodshot, staring intently at the baby. Sherlock deduced she was John’s sister almost immediately; if the blond hair and facial features hadn’t given her away, the alcohol on her breath would have done. “Harriet, I presume?”

                “Harry,” she corrected, still fixated on the little girl. She didn’t even bother asking who Sherlock was, clearly she already knew. “Is that the kid?”

                Anna seemed to know she was being spoken of, and met Harry’s stare with a tentative one of her own.

                “Hello love, I’m your Aunt Harry,” Harry said, her voice cold and dull.

                Sherlock remembered how Anna had turned and hid her face in his shoulder. The memory of the gesture still warmed his heart, all these years later—any uneasiness he’d felt about his choice to raise Annalise had vanished the moment she looked to him for protection. She trusted him to keep her safe, and he would.

                “Did that bitch wife of his take off?” Harry continued, at a growl. “Always seemed the type. I’m not surprised.” She reached out and attempted to stroke Anna’s cheek, but Anna screwed up her face and started to wail. “There, there, I’m not going to hurt you.” Harry tried to coo it but it came out as a croak instead. She cleared her throat. “What’s to become of her?”

                “I’ll be taking care of her,” Sherlock said, with more confidence than he’d had to date.

                “You?” Harry met his gaze with a combative one of her own. “Shouldn’t she be with family?”

                Sherlock’s vision narrowed on the woman. _So, she’s here to poach the child_. “What family is that, Harriet?” he asked, smoothly. “Your parents have been long dead, Mary’s as well, and Mary has no siblings or family of any kind. That only leaves—“

                “Me.” Harry’s voice grew even colder. “I’m her auntie. Blood-related. She should be with me. And if you’re so keen to fight me, you should realize that any court would give me custody in a heartbeat—“

                Sherlock stood a little straighter and cut Harry off with his quietest, most threatening voice. “Harriet, if I were you I would consider my situation before I attempted to continue. Who is the court to side with? A man famous for making this city a safer place, who has known Annalise since birth, who has already been taking care of her—or an estranged, alcoholic, self-destructive aunt?”

                Harry clenched her jaw. “How dare you—you know nothing—“

                “If you prefer, we could settle this another way: we’ll each take a turn holding her and see who _she_ chooses.” Harry glanced back down at Anna, and Anna, right on cue, burst into tears and hid herself again. Satisfaction blossomed in Sherlock’s chest. “I believe that settles it. Goodbye, Harriet.”

                She’d stomped off, and Sherlock had never heard from her again. He knew that was a grand bit of luck; if Harry _had_ decided to take him to court, Sherlock was sure he’d have lost. Blood-relatives usually trumped everything else, not to mention that his job, while safe for the city, was not safe for him or for anyone in his household. And, of course, there was his drug problem on record, which any half-decent lawyer would drag out into the open. Then there would be character witnesses. If nothing else, the sheer number of people in London who hated him would be enough to convince a judge that he had no business raising a child. But he would have gone down fighting. He would have done anything to keep that little girl.

                _Creak._

                Sherlock’s brain snapped back to the present as he heard his bedroom door open and saw John limp out of the shadows. He sat up as John stopped at the edge of the kitchen and stared out into the dim light of the sitting room. “John? What is it?”

                “I…” John’s voice was rasped. “I’ve got something to say.”

                Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Alright…”

                John took a few more steps forward and looked down to where his fingers were fiddling together. “You know, you spend a lot of time in prison thinking about what you’d do if you got free. You finally get a fix on the way you want it to go, and you play it out, again and again in your head, until it becomes like a memory, almost. It becomes real.” He took a deep breath and looked up. “I always thought that I’d... that the first thing I would do, before anything else… would be to kiss you. Kiss the bloody hell out of you.” He quickly looked back at his hands, unwilling to watch for Sherlock’s reaction. “I’m telling you I… that I want to be with you. That I’m in love with you.”

                This was no surprise, of course. Sherlock had known John was in love with him long before he’d ‘died.’ Back then, it had been a simple matter of waiting for John to figure it out, which, admittedly, had been taking longer that Sherlock would have liked. But Sherlock had been content to wait… back then.

                “Sherlock.” John’s voice wavered. “I know I’m very, very late. I know that. And I’m sure this is all a lot to process, for you, but… well, I just had to say it, in case I didn’t get another chance. I spent thirteen years regretting that I never said it, thinking that I might die there in prison and you would never know... So, there it is.” He nodded. “I love you.”

                Sherlock continued to stare in silence, not sure how to respond. It was a thing he’d dreamed of hearing John say, for the longest time, but there was something flat about it, now. It had hit Sherlock’s ears and had passed through with nothing even _close_ to the effect he once thought it would have.

                John fidgeted where he stood, clearly waiting for Sherlock to reply. “This is the part where you say something, Sherlock,” he muttered, forcing a nervous laugh. “Someone says they love you and you don’t just stare at them.”

                “You were dead,” was what came out of Sherlock’s mouth.

                John gave him a slightly puzzled look. “I know,” he said. “But I’m not, anymore.”

 _Yes you are_ , Sherlock nearly retorted, but stopped himself, because that didn’t make sense. John was standing in front of him, clearly _not_ dead… but it didn’t feel like he was alive, either. It didn’t feel like anything. _Why don’t I feel anything?_ He had chalked the first few hours of indifference up to shock, but that should have worn off by now. He thought back to yesterday, when he was talking to Dead John in his bedroom, and felt a warmth in his chest at the memory of it. But in refocusing on the man standing in front of him, the warmth vanished.

                John’s expression began to grow cross as he realized he was not going to get the response he wanted. “Look, we got off on the wrong foot earlier. It wasn’t… I was just trying to make it like it should have been. We should have been… you know… bloody _running_ at each other from across the room, or something. None of this, ‘Don’t talk until you’ve been questioned by the government for nine hours,’ or, ‘I think you’re a spy for Moriarty and I don’t trust you one bit,’ or, ‘Hello, half-naked woman in my flat—’”

                “John—“

                John clenched his fists. “I suppose it’s all my fault. In all those years of fantasizing about it, I never stopped to think about what would realistically happen if I saw you again. How you might have _changed_.” He readjusted his weight and leaned one hand on the couch, gripping it, hard. “I never thought about how many years thirteen really _is_. My daughter is a teenager. My old room upstairs, that’s her room. You raised her. And now you are in a relationship with Molly Hooper... a _woman_.” John snorted, as if it were too ridiculous to be true. “My God, you—you don’t even wear your _Belstaff_ anymore!”

                Sherlock glanced a bit sheepishly at the red circus tent hanging on the coat rack. “It wasn’t economical,” he heard himself mutter.

                “Christ, Sherlock. ‘Economical?’ You never cared about economy.”

                “I… of course I did!” Sherlock suddenly felt defensive, though he didn’t know why. He hated that coat, always thought it was the most horrid garment on the planet. But it had been useful. It had been a large part of his life for the last thirteen years, and what did John know about it? He hadn’t been there.

                John shook his head, his eyes shining in the lamplight. “Jesus. I thought I was coming back to Sherlock Holmes… but he doesn’t even _exist_ anymore.”

                Sherlock felt a rush of anger and quickly stood up. “Of course I exist!”

                “Not the Sherlock Holmes _I_ knew,” John shot back. “The Sherlock Holmes _I_ knew would already have seven different foolproof plans to save Anna. He would have realized in a split second that I wasn’t a spy for Moriarty. He would have _deduced_ what happened to me, instead of bloody asking me like any idiot!”

                _Wait, what?_

                Sherlock stared at the man in front of him, confused. John had expected him to _deduce_ what happened to him? Why? Why bother with wasting the time for Sherlock to deduce anything, when John could just tell him? And even if Sherlock had deduced it, he’d still want to hear the story from John; when they solved crimes together in the past, he’d always wanted to listen to the explanation from the criminal’s own lips. He enjoyed hearing that he was right, it was immensely satisfying. John knew that...

                _He knows something._ It hit Sherlock, suddenly, like a sledgehammer to the head, his brain banging around in his skull with the revelation. _He knows something about Moriarty’s plan, but he can’t tell me outright. He doesn’t want anyone else to know, but he can’t say anything because he thinks someone might overhear… Mycroft. Mycroft has surveillance equipment in the flat. What could John possibly know that would require keeping the government in the dark?_

                But Sherlock couldn’t deduce it. He just couldn’t. He was out of practice, hadn’t solved a case in years—working in the morgue was not stimulating, not to him. His mind had grown soft, and he didn’t have time to exercise it back into shape. Anna was out there, needing him, and every second they wasted was another second that she could be back home, safe.

                Sherlock reached out and grabbed John’s arm at the elbow, and started toward the loo. “What—“ John began, as the detective pushed him inside and locked the door behind them. His eyes grew very wide as Sherlock stepped over and turned on the shower. “Sherlock—“

                “Tell me,” Sherlock hissed, whirling around and grabbing both of John’s shoulders. “Tell me what you know.”

                John blinked and looked around the corners of the ceiling. “I… I don’t know what you’re…”

                “No cameras in here, he’s never been desperate enough to watch me bathe.” Sherlock waved his arm around, impatiently. “And with the shower on he can’t hear us.”

                John still looked quite baffled. “I…”

                “Out with it, John! You know something, about Moriarty, but you don’t want the government to find out. That’s why you wanted me to deduce it.”

                “But…” John’s eyes grew even larger. “But you _can’t_?”

                Sherlock pursed his lips, his pride not wanting to let him admit the truth. “It would be simpler for you to just tell me,” he said, carefully.

                John looked a bit bewildered. “You really have changed.”

                “John!” Sherlock snapped, frustrated. “We don’t have time for this, Anna is the grasp of the most malicious criminal in London, waiting for us to rescue her—“

                “Do you even feel _anything_?”

                Sherlock paused, taken aback. “What?”

                “For me,” John clarified. His eyes were suddenly shining. “Do you even feel anything for me, anymore?”

                Sherlock’s mouth fell open. This was ludicrous. Anna’s life was hanging in limbo, and all John could think about were _feelings_. What did it matter, what Sherlock felt? What anyone felt? For God’s sake, couldn’t John prioritize for once in his life? Sherlock cursed the human heart and its utter stupidity, having never in his life believed so strongly, as he did in that moment, that sentiment was the greatest weakness of mankind.

                But his moment of rage subsiding, Sherlock swallowed and began to formulate a plan; if John couldn’t get past his feelings, there was only one thing to do. “Of course I feel something,” he said, finally, barely louder than the running shower. He steeled his nerves and looked into John’s eyes. “Of course I do.”


	26. Part Five: Phantom Limb

                John was a little crazy.

                He was aware of it, and had decided to embrace it instead of pushing it down, as perhaps he might have done before (before, meaning, when he was still “alive,” and married to Mary, and living in denial about his everlasting love for Sherlock Holmes). But it was more than just John feeling a little crazy about the man he loved, more than him needing some sort of validation that his feelings were reciprocated. Seeing Sherlock again, he’d recognized with dismay that he and Sherlock had lost something, a profound connection that they used to have…

                It hadn’t been John’s intellectual insights that led Sherlock to his epiphanies, back when they used to solve crimes together. When John had made any suggestions about their cases, he was usually wrong; but somehow, indirectly, his ideas had pushed Sherlock’s brain in the right direction. John had never been able to define it, this thing they shared, only knew that it was a connection and it stimulated Sherlock to be better at what he did.

                And right now, he needed Sherlock to be the best he could be.

                He watched as Sherlock swallowed, looking very stricken, even through the heavy mist that now filled the bathroom. _Come on Sherlock, come back to me_ , he thought at him. He felt sorry for the man, he remembered how it was when their roles were reversed and Sherlock revealed that he was alive. John had felt like it was an intrusion in his life—he’d finally moved on, found someone new to spend his days with, found comfort in the routine of his job at the surgery—and then _BAM_ , there was the man who had turned his life upside down, come back from the dead to do it again. John had resisted it, at first. He’d have much rather pretended that Sherlock was still dead, so that he could keep on with the life he’d managed to piece together. But ultimately, he had to go back. They belonged together, the two of them.

_It must be doubly hard for him_ , John thought, not only because it had been thirteen years instead of two, but because emotions were difficult for Sherlock in general. But he could come back to it. He would. There was nothing that could keep them apart. That was one thing John was sure of, had always been sure of, all those years while he waited in that prison cell to be sent home: that he wouldn’t lose Sherlock Holmes. The love they shared could cross time and space. It had crossed a hell of a lot up to that point already.

_Come on._

                John noticed Sherlock’s hair had started to frizz in a halo around his head, from the heated mist of the shower. He wanted to smooth it for him, run his hands through the curls, as he dreamt of so many times over the last thirteen years. That was where the crazy part came in. John supposed he should have taken the whole thing slower, but for him it had already been horribly, painfully slow. He’d been waiting for this moment for a long time, and he couldn’t wait any longer. _Please,_ he thought. _Just come back._

                Sherlock looked up, into John’s eyes, and John thought he saw something open up inside of them. “Of course I feel something,” Sherlock confessed, softly. “Ofcourse I do.”

                That was good enough for John. Without waiting another moment, he strode forward and grabbed Sherlock’s face, pulling him into a deep kiss. Sherlock stood still for a beat, and then his lips moved as he kissed back. Relief washed over John, in a dizzying wave, and he felt himself melt into Sherlock’s body. _He’s okay. We’re okay._ John slid his hands up through Sherlock’s hair (God, did it feel good between his fingers) and to the back of his head, turning his face sideways to kiss him more deeply. It was better than any fantasy he’d ever had, and he’d had quite a lot of them—there wasn’t much else to do in captivity. “God I missed you,” John whispered, pulling away for a moment and nuzzling the other man’s nose.

                In response, Sherlock grasped John’s hair at the base of his neck and tugged, forcing his head up so that Sherlock could drive his tongue into John’s mouth. His other hand snuck its way to the small of John’s back, pulling his lower body flush with his own. Then, he reached down and used both hands to undo John’s belt buckle. “Fuck,” swore John, shocked at how quickly they were moving.

                Sherlock pulled John’s belt out of all its loops with one strong, fluid tug. It snapped against itself, and Sherlock dropped it carelessly on the ground.

                “I intend to,” he replied.

                John looked at him through heavily-lidded eyes and reached out to grab a fistful of his shirt, pulling him in so that they could kiss again. Sherlock’s hands were suddenly everywhere—first on John’s face, then down to his chest, under his t-shirt, up again, the shirt was off, Sherlock’s hands were smoothing the flesh round John’s back, tucking into his waist, a finger slipping down into—

                John’s arms lurched forward and pulled Sherlock back against him again, beginning to undo the buttons on his shirt, but he was too impatient. He abandoned the buttons and instead sent one of his arms beneath the shirt and through the top of the collar, feeling Sherlock’s throat and the underside of his jaw, running his thumb over Sherlock’s lips. They were red and swollen and soft and _lovely_. “Say my name,” John murmured, suddenly feeling desperate. He ran his thumb back and forth over the plump mouth, mesmerized by his desire to kiss it. “Please… I want to feel my name on your lips.”

                Sherlock let out a heavy breath, almost as if he’d been punched in the gut. His lips began to move underneath John’s thumb, and the sensation shot all the way to John’s groin.

                “John.”

                John’s mouth hung slack, his breath coming in loud bursts. “Say it again,” he ordered, and moved his index and middle finger to rest over Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock’s shirt stretched up and out of shape as he twisted his arm underneath it.

                “John,” Sherlock exhaled. “John, John.”

                John moved his fingers over Sherlock’s lips, sliding them back and forth between the iterations of the word. His thumb pushed a little ways into the opening, gently running over the tips of Sherlock’s teeth, and Sherlock closed his lips around the thumb and drew it deeper into his mouth. “Oh,” John gasped, as he felt the warm wetness of Sherlock’s tongue. He shoved his thumb in further, as far as the back of Sherlock’s molars, and Sherlock hollowed his cheeks as he sucked it in. It gave John an idea of what he’d rather put in there instead, and he shivered with the expected pleasure of it.

                Sherlock must have known what he was thinking, because suddenly he pushed John’s finger out with a “pop” and dropped to his knees. “Sher—“ John started but ended in surprise as Sherlock shimmied his trousers and pants off his hips in an instant. He paused and looked at John’s cock for a moment, already thick and taut, then back up at John’s face.

                John nearly started crying. It hit him so suddenly, a delayed reaction, he supposed, realizing that this was actually happening, a thing which he thought may never happen. All those years of not being together, all that time of wishing and wanting, it was culminating in this very moment. As Sherlock continued to stare into John’s eyes and slid his hands up to grasp his hips, John reached out and entwined his fingers in Sherlock’s curls again. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

                In reply, Sherlock bent his head and took John into his mouth.

                Every blowjob John could remember getting, all from women, had been dirty, depraved—rather porny, to be crude. This, however, was anything but; it was simply a physical expression of closeness. Sherlock wrapped his hands round John’s bum and pulled his body deeper into his mouth, licking and sucking John’s prick with finesse, with firm, thorough movements, slowly and deliberately. John moaned aloud as he watched it happening, running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair over and over, chanting, “I love you, I love you, oh God, oh yes, yes, _Sherlock_.”

                Sherlock, after a bit, pulled back and stood up again. John groaned in frustration and gripped the other man’s nearly unbuttoned shirt, pulling him in to another kiss. He tasted salty, musky, _wonderful_. They broke apart, foreheads still touching, and panted together for a beat. “I…” Sherlock breathed, and John felt a shiver down his back at the sound of the man’s voice. “I want you to fuck me.”

                John’s breath was sucked right from his lungs.

                Sherlock clutched John’s face and gazed into his eyes. There was an intensity there—John was hesitant to call it fear, but there was no other name… desperation, maybe. “I… please, John.”

                John nodded, unable to speak for a moment. “Bed?” he finally forced out, only able to utter the one word.

                “No.” Sherlock began to feverishly unbutton his trousers. “Here. Now.” He bent down to slide everything off, and John’s heart raced as he saw Sherlock naked before him. The man’s body looked made of marble, skin smooth and pale, only his cock had any color, it was long and flushed and stood out from the rest of him, eagerly waiting to be touched. John reached out to do so, but Sherlock quickly grabbed his wrist and backed them both up toward the sink. He turned John’s palm upwards and lifted it. “Spit,” he commanded, and John’s eyes widened, but he obeyed and leaned over to spit into his own hand. Sherlock folded it up as he turned around and bent over the countertop, resting his elbows on the edge, then pulled it forward and between his arse cheeks.”Open,” he murmured, and John opened his hand to glide his spittle across Sherlock’s arsehole.

                John took a deep breath. As a doctor, he’d had many a finger up a man’s bum, but this was a completely different situation. Sherlock shuffled his feet farther apart, so that John could see what he was doing, and he turned his head to watch himself begin working a finger into the pucker of Sherlock’s opening. It was incredibly erotic, especially as he could see Sherlock moving a little bit, sitting back every time John pushed in farther. He used his free hand to brush down Sherlock’s spine, then flipped it over and stroked up from Sherlock’s inner thighs, pressing lightly on his taint. He heard Sherlock’s breath hitch, at that, and smiled with satisfaction.

                “I’m ready,” Sherlock said, his voice thick and throaty.

                John swallowed, suddenly nervous. It was one thing to dream about it, and he had, plenty of times, but it was quite another to actually do it. “Okay,” he replied, tentatively. He spat in his hand again, and wet his prick, and held his breath as he gently pushed in.

                Sherlock had done this before. It was fairly obvious, the way he had positioned himself, the way he knew to bear down, the way he let out a breath of pleasure instead of sucking in one of pain. John had some experience, too, at least from the position he was in now, but only with women, and he’d suspected that none of them had actually enjoyed it all that much. At any rate, it had been many, many years since John had done it, and he’d forgotten how _tight_ it was. He rested inside Sherlock for a bit, settling into the sensation, and then began to slowly thrust. “God… oh my _God_ ,” he breathed, his vision going a bit fuzzy with the intensity of the feeling. He wasn’t going to last long like this, and he didn’t know how far along Sherlock was, but he certainly didn’t want to be the only one coming so soon. John leaned forward and slid his right hand around to the front of Sherlock’s pelvis, finding his stiff cock there, and gripped it firmly.

                “ _Oh_ ,” he heard the other man gasp, and suddenly realized that Sherlock hadn’t made any noise yet, aside from a few heavy breaths. _Is he purposely doing this?_ John thought. _Is he holding back?_ It wouldn’t have been a surprise; no man had more control over himself than Sherlock Holmes, and he rarely let go of that control—the only time John had seen it completely gone was when John was being beaten to death and had watched Sherlock sob outside the glass wall. The memory of it came flooding back, and John felt his heart twinge with sorrow. It may have been thirteen years ago, but to John, whose life had not progressed much in that time, it still felt like it was yesterday.

                John stilled himself and leaned over Sherlock’s back, reaching to grip the edge of the counter for stability. He leaned as far forward as he could, while still keeping himself inside the man, and whispered, “Let go, Sherlock.” He began to give Sherlock’s cock a few deliberate strokes, and thrust again, speeding up as he continued to whisper, “Let it all go.” He heard Sherlock’s breath increase rapidly. “Please, love. Let go for me.”

                In response, Sherlock lifted his arm from the countertop and reached it toward the mirror, which was white with a thick layer of fog. For a wild second John thought he was going to write something—though what, he didn’t know—but instead, Sherlock used his fingertips to smear away a patch of the condensation, right at the perfect spot to see John’s face reflected back in it.

                _He’s looking at me_ , John realized. _He needs to see me._

                John came, then, unexpectedly, and violently, with a yelp of surprise. “Sher… Sher… Sher…” he attempted, but was cut short by the shivering waves of his orgasm. He hadn’t meant to come yet, it was just the… the gesture, of seeing Sherlock look at him… “Fuck,” he breathed. “Sherlock…” He pulled out and Sherlock turned around.

                If John hadn’t just come, the look on Sherlock’s face would have made him do it. It was flushed completely, his curls damp on his forehead, his eyes half-lidded and his bottom lip hanging loose with his panting. John pulled him in close and tugged on his cock, and their mouths met in a kiss. Sherlock began to whimper, his voice rising as he got closer and closer—John could feel the pressure building beneath his fingers—and he grasped the back of John’s neck. “I—I—I—“ he choked, then tensed and screwed his eyes shut as he came in between their bellies. He caught John’s mouth with his own at the end, kissing him desperately as the last few spasms shuddered through his body.

                “I know,” John murmured in his ear after it was over, Sherlock catching his breath on John’s shoulder. He twirled a lock of Sherlock's hair round his finger absentmindedly. "You love me too.”


	27. Part Five: Phantom Limb

                They laid on the bathroom floor, propped up against the wall, Sherlock’s long, lanky body curled up around John’s side, John’s arm draped over Sherlock’s shoulder. The shower was still flowing, the room was now thoroughly thick with steam, and that coupled with the heat was only furthering the dreamlike quality of the scene. John felt exhausted, and euphoric, and immensely content, all at the same time. He let his head drift down with gravity and rested his cheek on the crown of Sherlock’s skull, twisting his lips to press a light kiss into his hair. “You certainly waited, didn’t you?” he murmured into the other man’s curls, suddenly remembering the conversation he’d overheard all those years ago. “Let me get it out of my system, indeed.”

                “Mhmmm…” Sherlock grunted, obviously half asleep.

                John burrowed his cheek closer to Sherlock’s head. “So you knew I eavesdropped that day? I always thought you might’ve. You made that comment about Mrs. Hudson listening outside the door, and I was positive you knew.” He smiled. “Bastard.”

                Sherlock slowly lifted himself onto his forearm and sat up, and John lamented the loss of the weight against his side. “What’re you on about?” he asked, groggily.

                “You know,” said John, “that day I came over, and you told me about the raid to capture Moriarty. You were talking to Mrs. Hudson before I came in. About how you were in love with me, and content to wait until Mary and I fell apart.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “I suppose it didn’t quite fall apart like you thought it would, but, hey… whatever works, right?”

                Sherlock continued to stare, though he looked more awake now. “You heard that?”

                John’s smile wavered. “Well, yeah, I kind of… I was about to step inside, and then I heard Mrs. Hudson say my name, and I couldn’t help but listen a bit. So, wait, you _didn’t_ know I’d heard it?”

                “I…” Sherlock trailed off, and a crease formed between his eyebrows.

                “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter one way or the other, does it?” John laughed awkwardly. “You still got me, in the end.” He reached up to touch Sherlock’s face, intent on pulling him in for a kiss.

                Sherlock dodged his open palm. “Did you tell Mary?”

                John blinked and withdrew his hand. “About what I heard you say?

                “No, that we were going after Moriarty.”

                John’s confusion faded as he realized that Sherlock was not asking questions out of personal curiosity; he was in full inquiry mode. “Yeah, I did,” John recalled. “I didn’t know they were working together, it never once crossed my mind, so of course I told her. I always figured that’s how he knew we were coming, how he was able to set the trap for us… What? What are you thinking?”

                Sherlock was quiet for a long moment, his face frozen in its furrowed-brow state, running the knuckle of his index finger over his lips absentmindedly. “Tell me what you know,” he said, finally. “About Moriarty’s plan.”

                John swallowed and scanned the room. “Are you sure he can’t hear?” Sherlock nodded, so John took a deep breath, and began.

***

 _Drip, drip_. The sound of water dripping was the first thing John noticed. He struggled to open his eyes, but they seemed to be swollen shut; in fact, his entire body seemed to be swollen stiff. He breathed heavily onto the cold, hard ground, his thoughts and reason sharpening back to existence. He wasn’t dead, that much was certain, but he needed to determine just how injured he was. He started by attempting to wiggle his fingers and toes. _Good, okay_. Then he concentrated with immense effort and managed shift his weight—didn’t move any particularly distinguished muscle, just completed a weight shift.

                Sharp, blinding pain racked John’s whole body, knocking the breath out of him. He screamed with such force that the contraction of his lungs made his entire torso spasm, then moaned and gasped as the spasms waned, unable to think of anything save for the pain.

                “Oh John, stop that nonsense.”

                John dimly heard footsteps come toward him, and felt someone grab his side to flip him over. He screamed louder. “Please, please,” he pleaded, beginning to cry involuntarily.

                Mary’s blurry blond head moved into view, lit from the side by a flashlight. “Pleading is not going to help you, John,” she said. “Not with me, anyway.”

                John blinked the tears out of his eyes and took several short breaths, trying to push past the agony. As it subsided, he was able to look around, and noticed they were in a dark, cavern-like room, which was bricked from floor to ceiling. It was wet, and cold, and there was a breeze coming from somewhere… “Where are we?” he croaked.

                Mary gave a look of disgust. “Sewer,” she said. “Can’t you _smell_ it?”

                John tried and then realized that his nose was completely plugged. _Probably broken_. Suddenly it throbbed in pain… had it been doing that all along? Had he just not realized it before? John swallowed, staring at the ceiling and breathing raggedly through his mouth. “Why?”

                “Waiting for our extraction, of course.” Mary left John’s side to lean back against the wall across from him. “The trapdoor in your room led under the building, and there was a sewer access point not far down. Moriarty had me pull you down here, before the bomb went off. Got you out just in the nick of time, too,” she added, as if she expected some sort of thanks.

                All of John’s muscles were still aching dully, and he closed his eyes, thinking that might help him relax against the pain. No, no, that seemed to make it worse. He opened them again and studied the seams between the bricks overhead. “The bomb,” he repeated, thickly. “Did… is Sherlock…”

                Mary scowled. “Yes, yes, Sherlock’s alive. Why would we kill him? What would we do for _fun_ if he were dead?” she sneered. “I’m pretty sure he thinks _you’re_ dead, though.”

                John felt a pain that had nothing to do with his bodily injuries. “So why aren’t I?”

                “Pardon?”

                “Dead,” John clarified. “Why aren’t I dead? What was the bloody _point_ , of all that?”

                Mary didn’t respond, and John eventually turned his head to stare at her. She’d set the flashlight on the ground and pulled out a pocket knife to clean her fingernails. “I apologize,” she said, finally. “I didn’t know he was going to have you beaten, like that. It was quite unnecessary in my opinion, but… well, you know Jim. Anything to hurt Sherlock Holmes that much more. Which reminds me,” she went on, looking up. “Anna _is_ yours. Not Moriarty’s.”

                John’s eyes widened in surprise. “Then why did he say she was his?”

                Mary shook her head. “Truth be told, I don’t know why he does half the things he does. The man is clinically _insane_. Honestly, I think the only reason he’s survived this long is that no one can predict what he’s going to do next. Fucking arsehole,” she added, under her breath. Then she promptly flipped the blade closed and came to squat next to John.

                “I need your help,” she said.

                John would have laughed if he’d been physically able. Instead he half cackled, half-coughed, and squeezed his eyes shut as the soreness in his chest intensified. “As if I would ever do anything for _you._ ”

                Mary rolled her eyes. “John, _listen_ before you respond.” She sat on the ground and crossed her legs. “I suppose I should start with some background… When I began working with Moriarty, I was much younger and a hell of a lot more naïve. Granted, I’d been an assassin, but that job never really required me to learn how to read people, you know—just kill them. Which I was very, very good at, I might add.

                “I’m not going to justify my going ‘rogue,’ to you or to anyone. Suffice to say the British government did something… unforgivably awful, and I couldn’t let them get away with it. Teaming up with Moriarty happened sort of by chance; I didn’t seek him out, nor him me. We simply found each other because we had a common goal.” Mary’s expression darkened. “I say ‘had’ a common goal, because apparently we don’t have it anymore.”

                “And what was that?” asked John, his interest piqued in spite of himself.

                Mary sighed. “To make the British government pay for their sins.”

                John raised his eyebrows at her.

                “A lofty aim, I know. But Moriarty was… I thought he wanted all the things that I wanted. He was sympathetic, and passionate. I suppose I got swept up in his grand plan for this ‘criminal network’ that could wreak havoc on the government. What I didn’t realize was that—well, to put it bluntly, Moriarty is a complete lunatic. He doesn’t _thirst_ for normal things, like justice, the way most people do. What he thirsts for is entertainment, some way to keep his warped mind occupied. Heading a criminal network was just one way to do it, but he could have just as easily become a serial killer or some equally base thing.

                “The point is, I was an utter fool when I employed Moriarty in my quest; a man like that cannot be controlled. And now, he’s is no longer interested in that quest—his only interest is his unnatural obsession with destroying the life of Sherlock Holmes. The man lives to cause Sherlock as much pain as humanly possible, God only knows why. Probably it’s because Sherlock is the only one clever enough and, let’s be honest, _insane_ enough himself to stimulate Moriarty’s curiosity. And now it’s gotten to the point where Jim’s compromising everything we’ve built in the last ten years, just for his own amusement. I mean, he nearly got us killed up there.” She raised her eyes toward the ceiling. “He’s going to be my own undoing if I don’t take action—and that’s where you come in. The ‘enemy of my enemy,’ and all that.” Her mouth twitched into a smile.

                “What, you looking for my advice?” John asked, sarcastically. “Fine: go and shoot the bastard in the face. Done. All your problems, solved.”

                “If only it were that easy,” Mary sighed, as if John had made an appropriate suggestion. “You have to consider the consequences of the mistake I made in making Moriarty the front-man of our little operation. He is, unfortunately, the one with all the connections, all the relationships with the powerful people in our network. If he dies by my hand, what reason will they have to trust me? To follow me? I’ll tell you right now: none. It doesn’t work like that, you can’t stage a coup when no one knows who you are.”

                “So what do you need me for, then?” John thought about it, and then gave her a wry smile. “You want me to kill him _for_ you?”

                “Actually, yes.”

                John’s smile faltered.

                “I’ll take some time first to develop relationships with the leaders in our network, and then, once I’m ready to take over, you’ll kill him,” Mary continued, simply, as if she were listing out the shopping. “You have the proper motivation already. We’ll make it look like you escaped, got your revenge. That way I can’t be tied to it, I can’t be blamed or mistrusted. I’ll usurp his position easily.”

                John stared at her. “You want me to murder Moriarty? And what if I refuse?”

                “Well…” Mary gave him a sardonic smile. “You’re not really in a position to choose, are you?”

                John blinked, still unnerved by her plan. “There’s… there’s always a choice, Mary. For instance…” He thought quickly. “I could tell Moriarty what you’re plotting.”

                She laughed. “You won’t do that.”

                “And why not?”

                “Because you and I want the same thing.” Mary’s voice softened. “To stop him.”

                John huffed a laugh. “Yeah? What for? To put you in his place? I’d just be swapping one lunatic for another.”

                She bit her lip, her expression gone solemn. “I’m not a lunatic, John. I may have done some things that fell into a… a morally _grey_ area… but I’m not a madman.”

                “I don’t know that,” John retorted, stubbornly. “You could be anyone. You’re a bloody psychopath.”

                “You _do_ know.” Mary’s eyes shone into his. “I mean, no, you don’t know my past and my intentions… my name… but you know who I am. Or who I’m _not_ , to be more specific. I’m not Jim Moriarty—I’m not going to strap bombs to innocent civilians or sabotage airplanes or beat people half to death just to get my kicks—”

                “But you are going to attack the British government,” John interrupted, “which makes you a terrorist. I’m a soldier, Mary. I’m not about to aid a terrorist.”

                Mary let out a loud breath of frustration. “John, you’ve got to stop looking at this as helping _me_ , and start looking at it as _fighting_ Moriarty.”

                John let the words mull in his head as he stared at the damp ceiling. “What happens to me, then? After I do it? And I’m not saying I will.”

                “Well… you’d escape. Go free.”

                John eyed her, suspiciously.

                “John, I’m not going to go after you. What I want, it has nothing to do with you—or Sherlock, for that matter. You were both a means to an end, under Moriarty’s plan, but I no longer care to go along with his plan. As long as you keep out of the way, you’ll be free to live in peace.”

                They watched each other for a moment, the _drip, drip_ of the water echoing quietly down the tunnel. “How long?” John asked, finally.

                “How long for what?”

                “Until you’ve positioned yourself. Until you’re ready for me to kill him. How long will that be? It’s got to be long enough for me to recover.” He glanced down at his injuries.

                Mary’s face relaxed. “Oh, you’ll have plenty of time to recover,” she assured. “I estimate it will take me a year, maybe two, to fully—“

                “A _year?_ ” John’s voice squeaked. “Maybe _two?_ That’s insane. What the hell am I supposed to do for two bloody years?“

                “Well… you wait.”

                “Wait? Wait where?”

                Mary took a deep breath. “Look, I don’t know Moriarty’s endgame here, okay? I don’t know why he faked your death, I don’t know what purpose he has for you. But I do know that you’re to stay ‘dead’ for quite a long while. Which means out of sight…” She registered John’s blank expression. “Prison, John. He’s going to keep you imprisoned.”

                John was silent for a few seconds. “You have to tell Sherlock.”

                “John—”

                “No. This is non-negotiable. He can’t… I can’t have him believing that I’m dead, for two years. I just… I know what that’s like, Mary. You know I know what that’s like, how awful it was for _me_. I can’t do that to him.”

                Mary looked at him with pity for the first time. “I’m sorry, John, I can’t tell him. I can’t have him getting involved.”

                “If you tell him what we’re planning, he’ll stay out of the way. He will. He’ll—“

                “Please, this is _Sherlock_ we’re talking about. He’s not going to let you rot in a prison cell, under Moriarty’s control, for two years. He’s going to try to rescue you, he won’t be able to help himself, and he’ll fuck up my plans to take over the network. He loves you, John, and love… love is a most _vicious_ motivator.”

                John set his jaw, stubbornly. “Then I won’t help you. And you _need_ me; you can’t trust anyone else to be discreet.” He suddenly had an epiphany. “That’s another reason why you’ve asked me to help you, me specifically… you can’t just hire someone random to do it because you can’t trust anyone else; you don’t know who his supporters are, who might tip him off, who might be working for him.”

                “You’re not as dumb as you look,” Mary muttered, pressing her lips into a tight, thin line.

                John ignored the slight. “I won’t help you unless you tell Sherlock I’m alive.”

                “Then I suppose I’ll find a way to do so,” she said, defeated. “But he’d better not fuck things up.”

                “He’s Sherlock Holmes,” John stated, sighing in the darkness. “He’ll probably keep us from fucking it up ourselves.”

***

                “But something must have gone wrong,” John continued, noting the intensity of Sherlock’s stare. “I never heard from her after that. When they finally moved me into my cell, Moriarty came to see me and suggested that he knew Mary and I were conspiring…. He never gave any specifics, so I don’t know if he knew the details of her plan. But he was at least suspicious, which would have been enough for anyone in that position to…” John bit his lip. “Two years came and went, and I assumed he had her killed. I didn’t know what else to think, I didn’t know what Moriarty’s plan was, I didn’t know if Mary had gotten the chance to tell you I was alive, didn’t know if I was ever going to see you again…” he trailed off, feeling his throat tighten at the memory. "But if she is alive... she can help us, Sherlock."           

                Sherlock was silent for a moment. “So Anna _isn’t_ Moriarty’s daughter?”

                John did a double take at the question. “Erm… no… that’s all you got from this?” He raised his eyebrows in concern. “Wait… You didn’t do a paternity test? I thought for sure you would have confirmed—“

                “Mycroft did,” Sherlock interrupted, breathlessly. His eyes were suddenly bright, moving back and forth rapidly—in time to the speed of his neurons firing, John was sure.

                “And he lied to you?” John asked. “Why would he do that?”

                “Same plan,” Sherlock murmured. He stood and began to pace the little room.

                “What?”                                                        

                “Mycroft and Mary. They had the same plan. The hit on Anna _was_ meant to make me go after them… Molly was right…”

                “What hit? What are you talking about?”

                “Mary’s not dead; she’s very much alive, and still scheming.” Sherlock whirled around. “Four days ago a dead girl showed up at the morgue. She was thirteen years old, petite, with dark hair—Anna’s doppelganger. She’d been shot right in the chest, right in the same spot that Mary shot me when I caught her with Magnussen. I thought it was a hit on Anna’s life, I thought they were threatening me, taunting me, and I thought I had to go find them, to take them out before they killed another person I cared about. Which is _exactly_ what Mary wanted me to do. She planted the body there, to frighten me, wanted me to go after them—more specifically, after Moriarty. And Mycroft must have wanted the same. He wasn’t using Anna as a weapon, he wasn’t training her to be a spy, he was manipulating her into danger, so that I would have to save her—and destroy Moriarty in the process.”

                “Sherlock, slow down. What’s Mycroft to do with any of this?”

                Sherlock pressed his fingers to his temples, pacing again. “What was it Mary said, once—that I could only solve a case when it mattered? Remember, the Mayfly Man? I couldn’t figure it out until Major Sholto’s life was on the line. Mycroft and Mary _both_ knew that about me, knew that if I were properly motivated, I would be able to figure out how to bring down Moriarty. And what better motivation than protecting someone I love? _Love_ ,” Sherlock echoed, the word hissed from his lips like a curse. “This is the price we pay for _love_.”

                “So… so she must be ready to take over the network,” John interrupted, uneasily. “But she didn’t know where Moriarty was hiding me, if I was even still alive, or she would have gone with her original plan. So she used you instead... the only other person she could be certain wasn’t one of Moriarty’s spies.” He stared at the man in front of him. “Are you going to do it, then? Take down Moriarty?”

                Sherlock stomped over to the toilet and flipped the lid closed, then sat down heavily. He leaned over with his elbows on his knees, interlacing his fingers in front of his face in a gesture of contemplation. “He’s got Anna. I have to,” he said, his voice imbued with anger. “Or I have to figure out how to get Mary to do it for us. She can’t take him out herself because she needs the network to trust her, but she only needs the network to complete whatever quest she’s set out to do… What does she want?” Sherlock tapped his fingertips together. “We have to figure out what Mary wants, it’s the key to everything. It has to have something to do with why she joined forces with Moriarty in the first place. She began as an assassin for some foreign government… why did she go rogue? What could have possibly caused her to throw away her whole life—“

                All of a sudden, Sherlock began to chuckle. John pondered him, lost, as always, as Sherlock’s laughs intensified. “What the hell is so funny?” he asked, when he couldn’t take it anymore.

                “ _Love_ , John,” Sherlock explained, turning his smiling head in John’s direction. “I don’t know who, or why—but it has to be for love. It has to. This is personal, for Mary.” He stood again, regaining his composure. “We need to find out everything we can about her. We’ll start with the last thing we know she did—kill that teenage girl. We’re going to the morgue; we need to examine the bodies a little more closely.”

                “Bodies? Plural?” John asked as Sherlock swiped his clothes off the floor and began to dress in a frenzy. “Sherlock—you’re not trying to go to the morgue _now_ —it’s four in the morning, there won’t be anyone there!”

                “We’ll just use my key,” Sherlock told him, looping his belt around his trousers. He flung open the bathroom door, and a rush of cool air parted the steam over John’s puzzled face.

                “Key?” John murmured to himself. “How the hell did he finally manage a key?” He shook his head as he turned off the shower, grabbed his clothes, and followed after.


	28. Part Five: Phantom Limb

                It was a quick ride to St. Bart’s, though that could have very well been because John’s brain was buzzing violently with all that he’d discovered at Baker Street: Sherlock had raised Anna as his own. Sherlock was still in love with him. Sherlock was on his way to deducing something that would save them all. Now, if only John could help him, the way he used to.

                _What does Mary want?_

                They got out of the cab, Sherlock paid the driver, and in thirty seconds they were inside the building, Sherlock’s keys jangling back into his pocket. “I can’t believe they finally gave you a key,” John said. “How the hell did you convince them?”

                Sherlock was about to respond, when he stopped abruptly and stared at the door to the morgue. John raised his eyebrows and tried to see what was the matter—but he didn’t have to wonder for long, because Sherlock pushed open the door, and there was Molly Hooper, up to her elbows inside a corpse. She looked up through her glasses and froze. “I… I didn’t think… anyone would… figured I’d work to, you know, to clear my…”

                “The name of the boat,” Sherlock interrupted, suddenly. He blinked. “Molly, do you remember the name of the boat?”

                “W-which boat?” Molly stuttered.

                “The fishing boat. The one that sunk with the teenage girl.”

                Molly looked a little taken aback. “Oh, erm… it was…” She withdrew her hands from the body and held them upright as she went over to the nearest desk and peered down at a file on top. “The _Aurora_.”

                Sherlock whipped around and faced John, who was now thoroughly uncomfortable. “You remember where the computer lab is located, yes?”

                “Uhhh… yeah,” John said, slowly.

                “Good. Go there and research everything you can on the _Aurora_.”         

                “I…”

                “Meet me in the chemistry lab when you’re finished.” Sherlock swooped back around. “Molly, you and I are going to take another look at those bodies.”

                Molly’s eyes went wide, and she peered down at the half-dissected corpse in front of her. “Ah… okay… just let me, erm, clean up, a bit…”

                John stood still in the spot he’d stopped, a nasty feeling pooling in his chest. He watched Sherlock shrug off his coat and open a cupboard door, revealing a wardrobe with multiple lab coats hanging in a row. He searched through them with two fingers until he apparently found the one he was looking for, and pulled it off the hanger in a practiced motion. He turned to put it on his arms, and noticed that John was still standing there, and rolled his eyes. “If you’ve forgotten where the lab is, just say so.”

                “Uh, no. No, I haven’t forgotten. I just…” John looked from Sherlock, to Molly, and back to Sherlock again. He had no reason to be jealous, he knew that. If Sherlock had slept with Molly, it was only out of loneliness and desperation—John was back, now, and there was no need for those feelings, anymore… _Right?_ John stared into Sherlock’s eyes uneasily.

                As if right on cue, Sherlock’s face spread into understanding. He strode over with purpose and stopped just before John, then leaned forward and pressed a soft, tender kiss onto his lips. John felt warm all over, his heart thudding wildly in his chest—if he wanted any proof that Sherlock was over Molly, this was most definitely it. His sight went fuzzy round the edges when Sherlock pulled away, and he felt a pleasant flush creep up his skin. “Right… ahem.” He cleared his throat. “The _Aurora_. I’m on it.” He spun around and exited the room, trying to hold in his grin until they couldn’t see him anymore.

***

                “You didn’t have to do that,” Molly said, quietly, the first full sentence she’d spoken since John had left. They’d gotten out all three bodies and Sherlock was bent over the first one, an older man, overweight, but strong-looking, with a half-bald head and scraggly beard.

                “I’ll need a scalpel,” Sherlock announced, putting out his hand without looking up. Molly sighed and handed him one, and watched him make a few incisions in silence. “Do what?” he inquired, suddenly.

                Molly had to think a second to realize he was responding to her earlier comment. “Send him away.”

                Sherlock glanced up at her, then back down to the body. “No mobile reception down here, or he could have used my phone. The lab was the only option.” He extracted a thin piece of flesh from the man’s lung. “Give me somewhere to put this, would you?”

                Molly held out a petri dish, and Sherlock carefully laid the flesh inside it. His eyes were bright and focused, and there was an energy in his movements that Molly hadn’t seen in many years. “You’re different,” she observed. “More like your old self. It’s nice.” She flushed. “Erm, not like I didn’t like you before—“

                “Molly,” Sherlock sighed and finally straightened up to look at her.

                “Sherlock, listen.” Molly took a deep breath and set down the dish. “I never expected to compete with John Watson. I’d never want to; I wouldn’t stand a chance. He’s your…” she sought the right way to say it, “… _you_. You know, if you were me, and he was you, and I…” she stopped, confused.

                Sherlock sighed again. “I get it, Molly.”

                Molly closed her lips, twisting them to one side the way she was want to do. “Just… you don’t have to explain anything to me. I _know_. And it’s okay. Really. You don’t have to worry a thing about me.”

                Sherlock stared at her for a long time, and she held his grey-eyed gaze. “I thought you were going to say the kiss.”

                Molly raised her eyebrows. “Sorry?”

                “When you said I ‘didn’t have to do that.’” He passed round the edge of the table and stood in front of the next body. “I thought you meant, kiss him. I thought you were upset that I kissed him in front of you, as if you thought I was trying to show you that I was clearly over you.”

                “That’s _not_ why you did it, though.”

                Sherlock smiled then, a small one, but it was there. “Then why did I?”

                “You weren’t proving to me that you were over me—you were proving it to _him_.” She smiled, too. “I don’t mind. It’s rather nice that he’s a little jealous of me.”

                “More than a little,” Sherlock muttered, and Molly heard the annoyance in his voice.

                “Oh, give him a break, would you? The poor man. I’m sure he spent that last thirteen years reflecting on what a plonker he’d been convincing himself he wasn’t in love with you. Honestly, it got to be so painful to watch, for the rest of us.”

                Sherlock’s didn’t reply, now extracting bits of dirt from underneath the fingernails of the next body. He scraped them into the second dish that Molly had laid out for him. “I don’t deserve you,” he murmured, eventually.

                Molly twisted her lips again. “Yes, I know.”

                After Sherlock had gathered several samples from the bodies and had gone up to the lap, Molly’s contented mood faded away. She put down her scalpel and took off her gloves, and, sitting on the floor where not even a week ago she and Sherlock had rested after making love, she put her head in her hands and cried for her broken heart.


	29. Part Five: Phantom Limb

                “Are you going to tell us what you’ve found, now?” John asked, annoyed, his elbows on the table and his chin resting in his hands. Molly’s head jerked up suddenly from between her arms, at the sound of his voice. “Or are you going to keep us in the bloody dark?” Sherlock had been at it for over an hour, and daylight was just coming in the windows… and the lack of sleep the night before was catching up terribly with the other two.

                Sherlock pushed back from the microscope, obviously at his wit’s end. “There’s nothing here!” he seethed.

                Molly rubbed her eyes. “Sherlock, we already knew that. We conducted those autopsies thoroughly… the girl died hours before the fishermen, and Mary—or whoever— _someone_ put her in the shipment with the others.”

                “But there has to be some clue here! Why these men? Why this boat? _Why?_ ”

                John and Molly shared a worried look. “Sherlock,” John said, softly, “not everything has to be a clue. Those probably just happened to be the bodies in the van when she went to load the girl on.”

                Sherlock stood up angrily, the stool scraping the floor and teetering as he left its seat. He whirled on John. “What did you find out about the boat?”

                John sighed. “It was a small operation, tourist fishing. Apparently they had a run-in with a barge. The police deemed it an accident.”

                “The police are always deeming accidents,” Sherlock barked, beginning to pace.

                Molly walked over to him and tried to put out her arm to stop him. “Sherlock—“

                “Don’t touch me!” he shouted, and Molly recoiled. He continued pacing, his hands on his head, gripping his hair. John had never seen him this distressed.

                “Sherlock, calm down,” John said, firmly. “Getting angry isn’t helping at all.”

                Suddenly, Sherlock’s fists were full of John’s shirt. “She’s out there, he’s got her, and we’ve got nothing. _Nothing_. And you want me to be _calm?”_ he snarled, his spittle flying at John’s face _._ He let go of John’s shirt just as quickly as he’d taken it, and turned away. “Neither of you understand. No one understands. I can’t lose her. I can’t.” His voice cracked.

                “Oh, Sherlock,” Molly whispered, her eyes full of tears.

                Sherlock went to the window and stood very still, his hands pressed over his nose. They could hear his breathing echoed underneath them.

                “Molly,” said John, turning to her. “Would you mind fetching us some coffee?”

                Molly sniffed and wiped her eyes, and nodded. “Okay. That’s a good idea.”

                John gave her a small smile, then turned and walked toward the window. It had started to rain outside, and it was just light enough to see the trees swaying and bending with the quickening wind. Their images blurred as raindrops coated the glass.

                John shifted his gaze to Sherlock’s face. The man had most certainly grown older, his forehead a mess of wrinkles under his curls, the skin on his cheekbones not quite as creamy or smooth as it once was. His dark hair was flecked with gray. John found himself wondering how much of Sherlock’s aging had been brought about by raising a child; he could imagine that that sort of thing might age one rapidly. In the six months he’d spent with Anna after she was born, he could most definitely see how that might happen.

                “What’s she like?” he asked.

                Sherlock blinked and turned his head. “Who?”

                “Anna,” said John, surprised that he hadn’t inquired about her before. “What’s she like?”

                Sherlock was obviously caught off guard by the question. “I… well… she’s very smart, of course. Quick-witted, to be more descriptive.” His face began to relax. “She likes to give me a hard time. Calls me out when I’m being…” He pursed his lips. “You know.”

                “A total wanker?” John supplied, with a smile.

                Sherlock’s eyes lingered on John’s for a moment. “Probably the exact language she would use,” he murmured. He shifted his gaze back to the storm. “But beyond that, she likes music—although she could have a better appreciation for classical—and prefers playing fiddle over violin.”

                “You taught her to play?” John asked, the thought making him giddy, for some reason.

                “Of course I did,” replied Sherlock, dismissively. “She’s coming along quite nicely, too.”

                John tried to picture them both in 221B, each facing out their own window and playing music side by side. _Wouldn’t that be a thing to see?_ “What else?” he asked.

                Sherlock’s shoulders relaxed as he warmed to the conversation. “She’s rubbish at school,” he continued. “Her marks are atrocious. She’s incredibly brilliant, I just can’t seem to get her to _apply_ herself. And she absolutely detests science.” He frowned. “We’re working on that.”

                John tried not to laugh at the irony.

                “And, she’s beautiful,” Sherlock added.

                John was surprised by the sweetness in his voice. “Beautiful? Didn’t you once tell me that ‘beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions’ or something like that?” he joked.

                Sherlock looked at him, no trace of humor in his expression. “She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

                John was rendered speechless for a moment. “What else?” he repeated, and he could hear the longing and regret in his own voice.

                “She’s fiercely loyal.” Sherlock spoke quietly. “She’ll do anything for the people she loves.”

                “She gets that from you.”

                They stared at each other. “I don’t know what would become of me if something happened to her,” confessed Sherlock. “Truly, I don’t.” He looked out the window again, concern written in every wrinkle on his face. “We’re running out of time. We have to figure out what Mary wants.” Suddenly, he banged a fist on the windowsill, making John jump back.

                “Jesus, Sherlock—“

                “Tell me everything you know about her.” Sherlock whirled on him, his face white and pinched in his frustration once again. “Everything. Tell me about the first day you met, all of your conversations, every word—“

                John sighed. “Sherlock, that’s impossible. Honestly, _every word_?”

                “Useless,” Sherlock muttered.

                John felt anger flare inside him. “Well, but I’m not useless, am I? I told you that Mary wants Moriarty gone. I gave you that. You wouldn’t have even thought to work with her if it weren’t for me.”

                “She was your wife,” Sherlock spat. “You should have known everything about her. How could you even think of marrying someone without knowing _everything_?”

                John clenched his hands into fists. “It’s not like I didn’t _ask_. You seem to forget that she lied to us about who she was, for months. It wasn’t until after I married her that we found out the truth.” Suddenly, John’s anger turned inward. “Shite.”

                “For God’s sake, what _now_?”

                “The flash drive.” John choked out, hollowly. “She gave me that bloody flash drive, with her whole life’s story on it, and I threw it in the sodding fire.” He let his head fall forward into the wall with a _thump_. “Fuck me.”

                Sherlock’s head spun back in John’s direction. “Say that again.”

                “Erm… fuck me?”

                “No.” The detective faced him completely now. “ _Before_ you so eloquently insulted yourself.”

                “Uh…” John swallowed. “I threw the flash drive in the fire?”

                Sherlock’s face exploded in heated excitement. “The flash drive… why didn’t I… yes, of course, yes, yes, yes!” He clapped with joy. “John! You’re _brilliant_.”

                John blushed profusely at the unexpected praise. “Well, I wouldn’t say—“

                “Tell me,” Sherlock interrupted, his voice speeding up. “When you told Mary about the raid on Moriarty, did you also tell her about the key?”

                “The… the key?”

                “Yes, the key, the key! The one Mycroft wanted us to retrieve! Did you tell her, John?”

                “I…” John tried to remember.

                “Think!”

                “All right, calm down! Yeah… yeah, I did tell her. What does that have to do with—“

                “Mary never planned on stopping the raid. She never tipped Moriarty off to set up an ambush, she didn’t care what happened to him—she was there for the _key_!”

                John tried, and failed, to understand. “Okay, so… the key. You’re saying that… that that’s what she’s been after? This whole bloody time?” His eyebrows pointed at the ceiling. “How the hell did you figure that out?”

                Sherlock smiled knowingly. “The flash drive.”

                “But…” John sputtered. “We didn’t look at it. We don’t know what was on it!”

                Sherlock’s smile grew. “We did look at it. We do know what was on it.”

                John gave him a puzzled look.

                “A.G.R.A. The initials on the exterior. Or what we _thought_ were initials.”

                “What do you…”

                “Let me explain it to you from another perspective. Do you recall, I told you that I thought this whole key business with Mycroft was odd? Why would he send _us_ in to get it? _Us_ , John? Why not send someone disposable, instead? Why would he send his own brother?”

                The memory came back. “Yeah, I remember that. You thought that it was because he didn’t want anyone to know it was gone. Not even the government.”

                Sherlock nodded fiercely. “We knew that the key had an incredible significance, for Mycroft to send us after it. And when we went, it was sitting in the middle of the facility, as Moriarty’s bait, so that he could carry out his plan. You put it in your pocket—“

                “And then switched it to yours when they were marching us to the observation room.” John remembered that bit, now. Sherlock had obviously thought that the key was important, and that it shouldn’t fall into the wrong hands, so John had feigned stumbling as they crossed the threshold of a door, had fallen right into Sherlock—and had slipped the key into the pocket of his Belstaff.

                “And when Mycroft came to me after I’d escaped the bomb and asked me if I had the key,” Sherlock continued, a slow smile spreading across his face, “I told him I gave it to you.”

                John’s eyes grew very wide. “I figured you’d given it back to him. I bet that’s what Mary and Moriarty thought, too, when they realized I’d snuck it into your pocket... I suppose we all underestimated how much you hate your brother.” He grinned, lopsidedly. “You still have it, then?”

                “I not only have it,” Sherlock said, looking more pleased with himself that he’d ever been, “I know exactly what it’s for: it’s the key to the _Agra treasure_.”

                Sherlock clearly expected that revelation to elicit a profound reaction on John’s part, but, of course, John had nothing to show. “What?”

                “ _Agra_ , John.” Sherlock emphasized. “A.G.R.A. The letters on Mary’s flash drive. They weren’t her initials, they were a _clue_. She was referencing the Agra treasure.”

                John sighed for what felt like the thousandth time that day. “I don’t know what that _is_ , Sherlock.”

                “Of course not,” Sherlock said, dismissing it with a wave of his hand, “because the Agra treasure is a symbol of one of the greatest failures of British rule, and one of the best-kept secrets in intelligence. I had to go to great lengths to find out any information on it, and it took years of finding the right people and gathering data.

                “Apparently, the Agra treasure was the personal fortune of the Mughal royal family, worth millions and millions of rupees, passed down from emperor to emperor. When the British finally overthrew the Mughals in India, they confiscated the treasure—but, it was locked in a chest, and they couldn’t find the key. They tried other means of opening it, of course—skeleton keys, pure force—but they never succeeded.”

                John lifted an eyebrow. “You’re telling me that only this one key will open the treasure chest? Isn’t that a bit… well… ridiculous?”

                “Don’t ask me about the mechanics of it, I’ve never seen the thing, obviously,” Sherlock said, as if he believed that if he _had_ seen it, he would have figured out how to open it in an instant. “There’s a bit of lore to it, which is entirely uninteresting, I can assure you. The point is that the British could never open it, and so were never able to make use of the wealth. Some believe that the treasure could have financed their rule in India, boosted the economy, provided food during famine—essentially prevented the revolts and stopped them from losing the country altogether. It was _that_ important.”

                “So, where was the key that whole time?”

                “It’s said the key was hidden by one of the emperor’s children when the British came to confiscate the treasure, but they never could find who did it. The emperor’s children were tortured, even killed, but none had any information on the key’s whereabouts. So the British government sat on a locked treasure chest, worth more than they could possibly believe, until the Rebellion occurred in 1857. You can imagine how frustrating that was, how embarrassing.

                “However, during the Rebellion, one of the rebels defected—and brought the key to the British government as an offering in exchange for his salvation. However, before they could finally open the chest, the facility housing it was ransacked by the rebel army.”

                “They took the treasure,” John said, figuring out how it ended.

                Sherlock smirked. “And it hasn’t been seen since. Apparently there have been all sorts of MI6 missions to find it and bring it back. So far, none have succeeded.”

                John slid down into the nearest chair. “How do you think Mary got involved in all this?”

                Sherlock sat across from him and leaned forward, his eyes bright. “Do you remember how we decided that Mary’s endgame must be personal?”

                John huffed a laugh. “Well, you decided that, I just went along for the ride. But yeah. I remember.”

                “Well, what would you infer, given all of this recent information?”

                “Erm…” John looked out at the rain for inspiration. “That someone she loved wanted the key.”

                “Eh,” Sherlock juggled his head back and forth, “not quite. Come on, it had to be something she’d give up her whole life for. Her whole life, John.”

                “Ugh, I dunno.” John was losing patience… and wondering how Sherlock was keeping his.

                “Okay, think about it this way. Why would she give us the clue A.G.R.A.? Why would she tell us _anything_ about who she was? Being married to you was clearly some scheme to get to the key. What would she have to gain by telling you about it, and thus ruining that scheme?”

                John could almost hear it click into place in his head. “Because you said you’d help her. She thought we would help her.”

                “Precisely.” Sherlock sat back, as if this answered everything. John took another breath, but stopped, still confused. “Keep going, John, come on. She wanted to steal the key from the British government. Why ever would she think that we would help her with that?”

                “Because… she thought we would be on her side. Because I loved her. And you loved me.”

                Sherlock made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. “Honestly, would you really have stolen something from the government just because you loved her?”

                John’s cheeks tinged pink. “Well, no.”

                “Alright, then. Why _would_ you do something like that? What would make it justifiable, to you?”

                John thought about it. “I suppose... if it was hers to begin with.” He felt his heart start to race. “You think… you think she’s…”

                Sherlock smiled. “In the midst of her first plan, which I can only assume was to use you to get to me to get to Mycroft to get to the key, we caught her with Magnussen and found out that she was lying about who she was. But instead of fleeing, she decided to stay, because she’d discovered that you and I were more useful than she first thought. She came to know our judgment as impartial. She believed her claim to the key was more valid than the government’s, so much so that she could convince us to side with her, and help her obtain it. John,” Sherlock’s eyes glittered, “I do believe we’ve found the last Mughal princess.”

                Both men were quiet then, letting that revelation sink in. Mary, a Mughal princess? But she didn’t really even look like… except, now that John thought about it, Mary _had_ colored her hair. It was very dark, almost black, but she kept it bleach-blond and cropped short.

                “I’m guessing the files on the flash drive would have told us about her past and her exact lineage,” Sherlock mused aloud, trying to fill in the rest of the gaps. “But all that didn’t matter, because you burned it without ever looking at it. And Mary… something you said must have made her change her mind about wanting us to help her find the key.” He looked at John, expectantly.

                John stared at the tabletop, feeling a flush creep up his neck. “I remember my exact words,” he recalled, softly. “I said, ‘The problems of your past are your business, the problems of your future are my privilege.’” He looked up, and Sherlock’s expression had become unreadable.

                “That was it then,” he said, his voice oddly strained. “She must have decided to give it all up for a life with you.”

                John felt his stomach turn, and he tried to push the thought away—the thought that Mary had, indeed, loved him after all. “So… so she gave it up. But Moriarty couldn’t have been very pleased about that.”

                “No.” Sherlock agreed. “He couldn’t have.”

                “So he somehow got the key, and used it to get all of us in the same place at the same time, to expose her partnership with him, thus ruining any chance she had at a normal life with me.” John shook his head. “God, that’s sadistic.”

                “It _is_ Moriarty,” Sherlock reminded him.

                There was a screech of door hinges, and Molly appeared, juggling three cups of coffee. “Ah, I see you two are looking better,” she said, brightly. “Any new developments?”

                John and Sherlock each took a deep breath to speak, then looked at each other, and grinned.


	30. Part Five: Phantom Limb

                Anna sat, alone now and tied to a chair, tears rolling off of her cheeks and down her chin, dripping onto the front of her shirt as her head hung low. It was awful, this waiting. It was quite possibly the worst part. She didn’t know what Moriarty planned to do, but whatever it was, it would be grotesque, and vicious, and deadly. And inevitable.

                And all her fault.

                There was an echo of a door opening, and footsteps across the concrete, tentative, light. Anna looked up wearily and blinked back her tears, focusing on a short, pretty woman with long, dark hair, her blue eyes staring intently into Anna’s brown ones. The door closed, and that echoed, too.

                “Anna?”

                Somehow, Anna knew. It wasn’t that she remembered the woman’s hair, or her eyes, or the sound of her voice. She’d been too young, to still remember those things. No, she knew because of the way the woman was looking at her, like she’d been thirsty for ages, and had just come upon a pristine pool of water, and was desperately hoping it was not a mirage.

                Everything that Sherlock or Mycroft or Molly or Mrs. Hudson or anyone had ever said about Mary Watson rushed through her head. It didn’t take long, because there wasn’t much, but what did stick out was one word, and Anna held it in her mind, told herself not to forget it.

                Mary’s face broke, and an eloquent tear spilled out of each of her eyes. “Oh, love. Oh, my baby girl. I’ve missed you so, so much.”

                _Liar._

                Anna’s face broke as well, and she cried the tears that had already been queued up from her previous despair. But inwardly, she smiled.

                Because she was a liar, too.


	31. Part Six: The Game is On

                “ _Why_ ,” groaned John, the bags under his eyes impossibly dark. Anna sat on his lap, screaming her head off, as she’d been doing for the past two hours since Mary had gone out for the evening.

                “You sure you’ll be alright?” she’d asked him, not bothering to hide the skepticism in her voice as she’d buttoned her coat.

                “Of course! I’m her father, aren’t I?” John had said. “Don’t you fret, we’re going to have a blast.” He’d shooed Mary out the door, then turned, smiling optimistically, to four-month-old Anna in his arms.

                She’d taken one look at him and started wailing.

                “It’s not your nappy,” said John now, sitting on the couch with her on his knees. “Believe me, I’ve checked. And you’re not hungry, I’ve tried to feed you a thousand times, and you are not interested in your toys or your father’s hilarious faces… what the bloody hell do you want?!” She sobbed in response, hiccupping, her little head shaking with each heaving breath.

                “Oh, this is completely ridiculous,” John huffed. He pulled out his mobile.

                “John, so glad you rang, you won’t _believe_ the case that just landed on my lap—and I mean that literally—“ Sherlock paused. “What the devil is going on there? Are you murdering a baby? Because it sounds like you’re murdering a baby.”

                “Believe me,” growled John, “I’m not, but not because I don’t want to.”

                “You didn’t start making those faces again, did you?”

                “Well, I—“ John started, but suddenly the words caught up with him. “What’s wrong with my faces?”

                Sherlock made a little noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. “John, they’re simply frightening.”

                “No, they’re not, they’re _funny_ —“ John shook his head at the phone. “Look, can you just come over and help?”

                “Help with what?”

                “Getting this damn child to stop crying!”

                “Isn’t that your job? Isn’t that what you signed up for?”

                John sighed. “I would do it if I could figure out _why_ she’s crying,” he said.

                “Change her nappy?” There was a hint of amusement in the detective’s voice.

                John growled again. “I’ve checked all of the _obvious_ things, Sherlock. Do you think I’d be calling you otherwise?”

                “But, did you change her nappy?”

                John whacked the phone on the table, and then picked it up again. “Oh, sod it, I don’t want your help anyway!” he shouted.

                There was a moment of silence on the other end. Then, “I’ll be right over.”

                Ten minutes later, Sherlock was walking in a slow circle round John and Anna, hands behind his back, his coat swirling about his legs as he studied the child. “So?” asked John, nearly at his wit’s end.

                “It’s simple, really,” said Sherlock, un-narrowing his eyes and smiling subtly.

                “Simple? _Simple?_ We passed ‘simple’ a bottle and a nappy ago.”

                Sherlock stepped closer and stared at Anna’s face. She stared back, still crying.

                “She’s _bored_.”

                John looked at him. “Bored? This is the great deduction of Sherlock Holmes? _Bored?_ She’s four months old, Sherlock! She doesn’t have the mental capacity to be bored!”

                “Bored,” said Sherlock, with finality. “Clearly.”

                “But… how…”

                “Probably because she’s been hanging around with _you_ for four straight months,” Sherlock insulted, smoothly. “Honestly, your depth of conversation, or lack thereof, has reduced me to something resembling tears in a much shorter time frame.”

                John scowled.

                “She needs a new experience, John. And I believe I know just the thing.” And to John’s surprise, Sherlock whipped out his mobile and went over to the entertainment center.

                “Music?” John asked.

                Sherlock just “hmmm’d” in reply, fingers flying over his screen. “Aha!” He tapped, and plugged his phone into the speakers.

                John squinted at the screen from across the room. “ _Tchaikovsky?_ ”

                Sherlock adjusted the volume and then turned back to John and Anna. He took off his coat and scarf with flourish as the music started, tossing them delicately onto the couch. “I’ve been waiting for a case like this,” he said, to no one in particular. Then he held out his hands with a sharp, “Give her to me,” and John, completely out of his element, handed over the poor wailing child. Without a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock settled her in his arms and began to dance around the living room

                To John’s utter wonderment, Anna stopped crying. She stared up at Sherlock, not sure what to make of him and their movements and the music. “Well, bugger me,” said John, collapsing in the nearest chair and gazing with fascination at the pair of them. “Sherlock Holmes, baby whisperer.”

                “Nonsense, John!” shouted Sherlock over the music. He spun around once, twice, thrice. “It was a simple process of elimination. We eliminated ‘hunger’ and ‘physical discomfort,’ so there could only be one thing left.” He stopped spinning and handed Anna back. “Give it a try,” he said, breathlessly, cheeks pink with physical exertion.

                John received Anna in his arms, and she at once proceeded to projectile vomit all over the front of his jumper. All three just stood there, staring at it. And then Sherlock began to laugh.

                “That’s my girl,” he said, pinching Anna’s cheek.

***       

                _This wasn’t the plan._ That was all Anna could think when Sherlock and John stormed into the room where she was held hostage, clearly determined to rescue her from her so-called predicament. She didn’t even have a moment of relief or happiness at seeing them there; all she felt was anxiety.

_This wasn’t the plan._

                The plan was for Mary to secretly give Anna the means to escape and for Anna to do so, but instead of fleeing the building as quickly as possible, she was to make her way to the twelfth floor, disarm the guard outside the elevator, steal his gun, and shove through the office at the end of the hallway where she would shoot (and kill) James Moriarty. Apparently, Mary wanted Moriarty dead just as much as everyone else, but she couldn’t kill him herself—something to do with coups, and a “network”, Anna didn’t really care—and so she devised a scheme for Anna to do it, instead. “It’ll look like you wanted revenge,” Mary had said, after the tears had been shed and apologies had been whispered and Anna had lied and lied like she’d never lied before. “Which,” she’d continued, her eyes sad and a wry smile on her face, “probably won’t be much of a stretch, for you.”

_No_ , Anna had thought, thinking of Sam, of Heidi, of David (David, _David)_. _No, it won’t_.

                _That_ was the plan, and nowhere did it mention that Sherlock and John would be involved. The fact that they were here meant that everything had gone to hell, that Mary had (once again) lied, and they were all in very grave danger. “ _Fuck_ ,” Anna swore, as Sherlock hurried toward her and John sided up against the doorframe to squint into the hallway, gun at the ready. “What are you doing here?”

                Sherlock stopped mid-hurry and stared at her. “You weren’t expecting us.” It wasn’t a question.

                John’s gaze flitted to them, in the middle of the room. “Plan B?” he murmured, looking back out the door again.

                To Anna’s surprise, Sherlock scowled at him. “I _told_ you Plan B should have been Plan A from the beginning.”

                John rolled his eyes. “For God’s sake, it doesn’t matter, it’s just a way to separate them—“

                “Yet ‘A’, being the first letter of the alphabet, implies that the plan named after it is more likely to occur than that after the second letter, ‘B.’ Which is why Plan B should have been Plan A, as it was much more likely that Mary would double-cross us than stick to plan we gave her.”

                Anna’s eyes widened. “You had a plan with her, too?”

                Sherlock turned back and sighed, his ire melting away. “Yes, but it doesn’t matter now.” He strode forward the rest of the way and knelt in front of her. “Are you alright?”

                Something about his voice, the softness and concern there, made Anna feel like a child again, and her bottom lip began to tremble. No, she wasn’t alright. She’d been lied to, manipulated, made to kill people, people she _liked_ , people she _cared_ about—

                “That was a stupid question, forgive me,” Sherlock muttered, beginning to untie her bonds.

                As soon as the first arm was free, Anna leaned forward and grasped his coat, burying her face in the crook of his neck. He smelled like shampoo and cigarettes and mothballs—probably that old wool coat he was wearing—and something else, something indefinable that was just _him_. He finished with the other arm and then wrapped her in a tight embrace, and Anna hadn’t realized just how scared she’d been, and how lost, until he was there, holding her. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d held her like this.

                “Forgive me,” Sherlock said again, quietly, and Anna knew the plea was no longer just about his stupid question. She thought she might have told him there was nothing to forgive, if she’d been able to speak coherently through the emotion that was squeezing her throat shut. Suddenly, it didn’t matter that this wasn’t the plan. Sherlock was here. He would fix everything.

                “Sherlock, sorry, but we have to go,” said John. Anna opened her eyes and observed him over Sherlock’s shoulder, his face tight and strained, but raw in some way, as if he was watching something forbidden but didn’t want to stop. His eyes locked on hers and he made what appeared to be an attempt at a reassuring smile. It sent an odd little thrill up her back. _John Watson,_ she thought. _My father._

                “Anna, listen to me,” Sherlock said, pulling back and holding her tear-streaked face between his hands. She blinked away from John and focused on his face. “We’re going to escape, but to do that I need you to trust me, totally and completely.”

                Anna nodded solemnly. “Alright.”

                “Sherlock…” John murmured, now pressing himself even closer to the wall and peering with one eye out the door. “They’re coming.”

                Sherlock didn’t reply. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a pocket knife, offering it to her in his open palm. Anna stared at the weapon, then back up into his eyes. They were cool grey, and piercing.

                She reached out and took the knife in her hand.

                “SHERLOCK!” yelled John, and flung the door open wide, using it as a shield as he shot at the guards running down the hallway towards them.

                Sherlock grabbed Anna’s arm and dragged her to the doorway, keeping a hand on her head and pressing it down low. “Cover us!” he shouted. John stepped out from behind his shield and squeezed the trigger over and over as fast as he could, backing up behind Sherlock and Anna as they made their way to the stairs.

                Soon they were flying down the staircase, John reloading his gun as they went. They heard shots come from above, and Anna shrieked in surprise as Sherlock pushed them flat against the wall of the landing in front of floor four. John crouched low around the railing and fired his gun again and again toward the upper steps. “Go! I’ve got them!” he shouted, grimacing as bullets twanged on the metal bars. Sherlock stared at him, hesitating a moment, then grabbed Anna by the wrist to continue down the stairs.

                Suddenly, two guards burst out of the fourth floor door, right across from them. Sherlock let go of Anna’s wrist and moved in front of her, disarming the first one and ducking as the guard swung his fist to clobber him in the face. The second guard was still in the doorway, however, and Anna saw her chance—she leapt past Sherlock and behind the door as it came away from the wall, then wedged herself in the gap and used her legs to shove the door closed with all her might. It smashed into the second guard, pinning him awkwardly between the door and the frame, and he yelped in pain, his gun still in his hand but now askew. Anna flipped the knife open and sliced out at the trapped hand—he screamed and dropped the gun. She smirked with satisfaction as she flung the door open again and stabbed him in the neck before he had time to react. The guard’s eyes widened in shock, and he coughed blood onto her face. “Ugh,” she grunted, pulling out her knife and shoving him down the steps in disgust. He tumbled into the wall below, and lay still.

                John had still been shooting, so he didn’t see Anna kill _that_ guard—but he did see her kill the one Sherlock was fighting. She came up from behind just as the man was about to deal Sherlock a heavy blow, launching herself into the air like some feral animal, snarling and spitting as she clutched the guard’s shoulders and slid the knife swiftly across his throat. The guard fell backwards, trapping Anna underneath him, and Sherlock heaved himself up from the ground to lift the body off of her. She stood up again and caught John’s face, frozen in horror. It was so jarring that Anna felt as if she’d been slapped. “I…” she started, suddenly wanting to explain herself, but not knowing why, or how.

                Bullets pelted down from above, and Sherlock’s shout of “Down! Climb down!” pulled them both back to reality. Anna whipped around and hurried down the stairs, all the way to the bottom, John and Sherlock half a step behind her.

                However, the bottom, as it turned out, was not the main floor; it was the garage basement. Anna flung the door open, expecting to see a lobby and exit doors, and got quite a shock as the three of them tumbled into the dim, silent parking structure. She looked around with haste for a stream of natural light or an exit sign. Sherlock found an arrow on the floor and pointed, hissing “Come on!”, his voice echoing eerily off the walls. There were no cars in the lot, not a one.

                “I don’t like this…“ muttered John as they rounded the first corner. Anna glanced behind her to see if anyone was following—no one was—and immediately ran into Sherlock, who had stopped abruptly. She caught her balance and then saw, with what felt like an iron fist clenching her heart, three armed guards pointing guns at them. And in the middle stood Jim Moriarty, his hands clasped in front of him, an ostentatious gold and velvet crown resting on his head.

                “I’m surprised you all made it down here without the escorts I sent,” he remarked, casually. “But, since you _have_ managed to do so, I suggest you drop any and all weapons. That includes your knife, Miss Watson,” he added. He raised his eyebrows in a private look at Sherlock, then smiled darkly.

                Sherlock’s face remained impassive. “Do as he says, Anna,” he said, turning toward her.

_Trust me, totally and completely,_ Anna remembered. She dropped her knife, and it clattered weakly on the floor.

                “Yes, yes, do as I _say_ ,” repeated Moriarty, rounding his gaze on Anna’s blood-speckled face. He stepped beside her and kicked the blade away. “She’s good at that, has she told you? Killed those awfully boring little band members of hers, all at my instruction… or _suggestion_ , more like. Isn’t that true, Anna?”

                Anna balled up her fists and tried as hard as she could to imitate Sherlock’s emotionless stare.

                “You really didn’t need any convincing, did you?” Moriarty went on, his eyes demonic. “You did it because you _wanted to_.” He growled that last part right next to her ear, and she blinked rapidly, trying not to cry. She purposely avoided looking at John’s face, imagining the look of horror that had been on it before. “Anywhoo…” sang the criminal, standing up straight again and backing away. “You’ll be glad you dropped the knife, Anna, for I’m about to give you a much better weapon than that.” He looked over at his cronies, and nodded once. Two of the guards walked over to each Sherlock and John, kicking their legs from behind to force them on their knees. Both guards then pointed their guns directly at their heads. The remaining guard stood behind Moriarty and kept his gun on Anna.

                “You see, Anna, I’m not without a heart,” said Moriarty, knowingly. “I’m not entirely ruthless; I _am_ capable of pity, despite what some may tell you.” He went over to the last guard with an outstretched hand, and the man gave him the back-up pistol out of his holster. “I wouldn’t go and kill both of your daddies, no, that’d be too _cruel_.” He strode back to Anna and grabbed her by the collar, dragging her out from the line to face Sherlock and John on the ground. “But how do I decide which one lives, and which one dies? They both have their good and bad qualities, to be sure… yet if I really think about it, it shouldn’t be up to me to decide; _I’m_ not the one that has to live with one of them afterward.” With that, Moriarty snatched up Anna’s right hand and slapped the gun into it, then stood behind her and whispered, “So, I’m going to let _you_ choose.”

                A strangled sob broke from Anna’s lips, her fingers curling white-knuckled around the gun. “ _No_ ,” she moaned, though she knew it wouldn’t matter. She began to cry inconsolably, her tears smearing away some of the blood still on her cheeks. John stared open mouthed, and Sherlock had gone very, very pale.

                “Choose, Anna,” breathed Moriarty. “Shoot John, and Sherlock lives. Or keep John alive, and shoot Sherlock instead. It’s a simple decision: one,” he flipped one hand’s palm up towards Sherlock, “or the other.” He flipped the other towards John. “Whichever one you choose,” he added, closing his hands into fists, “I’ll let you both walk out of this building, scot-free.”

                Anna saw John turn to look frantically at Sherlock. “ _Sherlock,”_ he choked, hoping for some reassurance. Instead, the guard whacked him over the head with his gun and with a “ _shut it!”,_ and Sherlock remained silent, his narrow, ice-like eyes fixed on Anna’s round, deep, dark ones. Somehow, Anna didn’t think this was part of Plan B, anymore. She felt a coldness overcome her, a cold blanket of _fear_. It chilled her to her very bones.

                “I can’t,” she sobbed, her outstretched arm beginning to shake. “I won’t.” She didn’t want to kill either of them. She didn’t want to kill anyone, anymore. She knew Sherlock would hate her if she killed John, but if she let Sherlock die, she would hate herself. There was no winning, here.

                “Of course you will, Annalise,” Moriarty replied calmly. “Because if you don’t, I’ll kill them both. And then _no one_ will be going free.”

_Think think think_ , Anna chanted in her head, over and over and over. _Think. What’s here, what’s in the room?_ she heard Mycroft’s voice echo, from what seemed like so very long ago. _Three guards,_ Anna counted. _Three guns._ Pointed at all three of them.

_Now what can you do?_

                She would never be able to shoot them all before they turned her into a pile of Swiss cheese. _Nothing_ , Anna thought to herself. _I can’t do anything, save for what he wants._ She wished then that she could shoot herself, that that was a choice. But she knew it was a rubbish idea; if she did do that, Moriarty would probably kill the two men anyway, in his rage at being slighted. She had no other option than to kill one of them. One was better than both.

                “Look at you all,” said Moriarty, jovially, his crown wobbling on his head as he laughed. “You all thought you were so _important_ , so _vital_ , so _individual_. But I can make you do whatever I want. Go ahead, Anna, kill one of your daddies. Do it. Your king commands you!” He laughed again. “Look at you, you’re just a pawn, just a little pawn in my little game.”

                _Pawn._ Anna’s breath caught in her throat as the solution became crystal clear.

                When she was a little girl, Mycroft had taught her to play chess. She’d nearly forgotten about it; the games would always end in her being beaten and in tears, and Sherlock had finally outlawed it. Anna was probably eight years old, at the time. “Mycroft, quit bullying her,” he’d said. “Why don’t you play Operation, instead?”

                Mycroft had tutted. “Sherlock, do not project your own shortcomings onto poor Annalise. Just because I always beat _you_ in chess doesn’t mean that Anna won’t win against me, someday.” Yet they’d stopped playing anyway.

                But Anna _had_ learned chess from Mycroft, she remembered now. In fact, the more she thought about it, some of her earliest memories were of sitting across from him at the chessboard, staring at the checkered squares while she either thought of her next move or tried to guess at Mycroft’s.

                “There are people who say that chess is a game of strategy,” Mycroft would often say to her, “but those people are fools. It’s not a game of strategy—it’s a game of _sacrifice_.” She remembered how intense his eyes would seem when he spoke like that. “Most people become so attached to the powerful players that they forget to look at the greater picture; it’s not about one piece, it’s about winning the _game_.”

                Anna couldn’t remember ever winning against Mycroft. He’d always beaten her, no matter how hard she tried or by how much she thought she was winning. Ultimately, she would become too worried about protecting her queen, or her knight, or her castle, and she would lose her focus. Anna thought it must be impossible to completely ignore the importance of the more powerful pieces; you couldn’t win the game with only _pawns_ on the board. She’d told Mycroft that once, and he’d smiled wryly. “Oh no,” he’d said, “but don’t forget, a pawn can become whatever you want it to be—if it can make it to the other side, of course.”

                As Anna stood pointing the gun, she realized that in all those years, Mycroft was not teaching her how to win at chess; he was teaching her about life. He was teaching her that there was something greater than the important players in her world, than the people that she loved. There was the game.

_The game._

                If she truly thought about it, Moriarty wasn’t really going to let two of them go “scot-free.” He was a liar, toying with his food before he swallowed it. He just wanted see what he could make them do. “Because I _could_ ,” he had said, when she’d asked him why he made her kill her friends. No other reason than to test his power. A man like that had no business being alive; someone needed to put him down, no matter what the cost.

                Anna stared from John to Sherlock and back again, and gritted her teeth, swallowing her tears. _Sacrifice_. That’s all life was, a game of sacrifice. Sherlock was a knight, John was a castle, and maybe she _had_ been a pawn—she had always felt so ordinary, had spent her whole life, it seemed, slowly making it square by square across the years. But now she had reached the other side, and she had been queened.

                “Checkmate,” she whispered.

                She spun around and unloaded the clip into Moriarty’s bemused face.


	32. Part Six: The Game is On

                _Bang! Bang! Bang!_

                The sound of the gun echoed for some time on the barren walls of the parking garage. Anna’s eyes remained shut, waiting for the guard to kill her… or maybe he already had. _Shouldn’t I have felt pain, then?_ she wondered. _Shouldn’t I have at least fallen over? Shouldn’t I have felt anything? Although, maybe this_ is _what “dead” feels like. Maybe nothing changes._

                She opened her eyes.

                She was still standing, Moriarty’s corpse lying in front of her, continuing to bleed from its (now unrecognizable) face onto the ground. And the guard who had been aiming his gun at her, he was also lying on ground, his eyes open and lifeless. Anna turned around to see Sherlock and John, who were both still on their knees, both blinking wildly at the dead bodies of the guards who had guns to _their_ heads a moment ago.

                “It’s a good thing I’m such a good shot.” All three of them looked up as Mary stepped out of the shadows. “I was able to pick them off before they killed the lot of you.”

                “ _Jesus_ , Mary.” John exhaled in relief, attempting to stand up. “We thought you weren’t going with the plan anymore. You could have _told_ us.”

                “Sit the fuck down, John,” commanded Mary, pointing her gun at him. His face fell as he realized that, no, she was _not_ still going with the plan. “And put your hands behind your heads, all three of you.”

                Without a second thought, Anna aimed her gun at Mary and pulled the trigger— but nothing happened, except for a faint “click.”

                “You used the whole clip, love,” Mary said, walking around to pick up the fallen guards’ weapons. “That can happen when you’re scared. Or when you want to be _sure_.” She smirked and glanced at Moriarty’s mutilated face. “Now,” she said, pointing her gun in Anna’s direction, “go and kneel between your fathers.”

                Anna set her gun on the ground and shakily walked over to the space between Sherlock and John. She knelt and put her arms behind her head.

                “Very good,” Mary praised. She took a deep breath and smiled. “I would like to thank you, Anna, for making my life a little easier. I had absolutely no idea how I was going to get away from Moriarty, but now I don’t have to worry about that.” She turned to Sherlock, then, and her smile faded. “Now, where is it?”

                “Why didn’t you help us before, as we had originally planned?” Sherlock asked, avoiding her question. “That was a nasty little trick, Mary. Letting us think that Moriarty had won again.”

                Mary gave a rough laugh. “You know why. I’m not stupid; I’ve come too far to trust anyone blindly. I couldn’t know for sure that you had it until I saw it with my own eyes… which I still haven’t by the way.” She raised her gun more firmly at attention. “Why would I compromise my position in the network if I didn’t know for sure you’d deliver the key?”

                “What key?” Anna asked, confused.

                “Of course, you had every right to be suspicious,” Sherlock said, ignoring Anna. “But I can assure you that you will have the key in hand very soon.”

                Mary narrowed her eyes. “So you don’t have it with you?”

                “Well, Mary,” Sherlock chided, with a smile, “I’m not stupid either.”

                Anna looked from Sherlock, to Mary, and then over to John, who was clearly apprised to what they were talking about. “Jesus, am I the only one who doesn’t know what’s going on?”

                “Put the gun down, Mary,” Sherlock ordered.

                Mary gripped it tighter, instead. “Not until you tell me where you’ve put the key.”

                “A safe place,” he answered.

                Mary aimed and shot her gun up at the ceiling, and Anna and John both winced at the sound as concrete dust settled over them. “I don’t have time for this game, Sherlock. Moriarty’s network numbers much greater than the corpses on the floor, you know. Reinforcements will be here soon, and I don’t think any of us want to be here when that happens. So tell me where you’ve got the bloody key.”

                “Why don’t I show you, instead. Come on, we’ll go for a little ride. We’ve a car parked just out front.”

                Mary’s face soured. “This wasn’t the plan, Sherlock.”

                “Indeed, yet I seem to remember that _you_ didn’t follow the plan, either.”

                “You haven’t got it, have you? You’ve been lying to me this entire time. I should just kill you all right now.” She pointed her gun directly at his head.

                “No!” Anna shrieked, lurching from her position on the floor to shield Sherlock with her own body. “You can’t. Please. Please don’t kill him.”

                Mary growled and twisted her arm to turn the gun on John, instead. She glared into Sherlock’s eyes. “Do you have the key, or not?”

                Sherlock sighed. “Mary—“

                “Tell me, or I’ll fucking shoot!”

                “No you won’t.”

                “I swear to God, I will blow out his—“

                “No,” Sherlock told her. “You won’t. You love him, Mary.”

                Mary’s body trembled with rage. “This is my _life_ , Sherlock. My whole _fucking life_. There is no one I would not kill to survive!” Spittle flew from her mouth.

                “Oh, this is ridiculous!” John huffed, suddenly. He reached down into his trouser pocket and fished around for a second before pulling out an ornate, silver key. “Here’s the bloody thing.”

                Mary and Anna stared at him, in shock, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Honestly, John, did you not understand the plan at all?”

                “Bugger the plan,” John spat back. “When someone’s got a gun to my head, all bets are off.” He stretched out his hand with the key inside. “Here, go on and take it, for the love of God.”

                Mary swallowed and her eyes grew very wide. She reached out and delicately took the key from his palm.

                “What does this key have to do with anything?” Anna asked again, exasperated, her arms still wrapped around Sherlock’s neck.

                For the first time, Mary turned to her daughter, and Anna was taken aback by the emotion in her face. She looked back down at the key, thumbing over the intricate design. “Right before my mother died, she gave me her necklace,” she said, quietly. Her gun was still raised, though not aimed directly at any of their heads. “It was a half moon made of lapis lazuli, tied to a rather crude leather string, but she’d worn it every day of her life, as far as I could recall. She told me she wanted me to have it, and that I should never take it off. And I didn’t. I was nineteen years old when she died, leaving me an orphan, by the way—I’d never known my father—and I wore it every day for the next five years, even after I was recruited into the CIA as an assassin for hire, even when I went on assignments. I kept it hidden, under my shirt, but it was always there, reminding me of her.

                “When I was twenty-five, I was assigned to kill an MI6 agent. I knew nothing about him except for his home address and his physical description—average height, blond, blue-eyed. That was nothing out of the ordinary; they only ever told us what we needed to know to kill, and it wasn’t much. The night that I went to his home I was on my guard, because he was intelligence, too, so I figured he’d be more alert than my usual targets. I thought I’d made it successfully through the house without waking him, but as soon as I stepped into his bedroom he ambushed and disarmed me and demanded to know who sent me. He was so angry, but unsurprised, as if he’d been expecting something like this to happen. I was about to give him my practiced ‘Fuck if I tell you’ response when I noticed a long, thin chain round his neck, and at the end of it a delicate half moon of lapis lazuli.”

                Mary looked up, her eyes brimming with tears. “That man was my father, Annalise. He was my father, and they’d sent me to kill him.” She drew a shaky breath. “He told me everything that night, explained all of the unknowns in my life, answered all the questions I’d ever had. You see, when he was much younger, MI6 had sent him to Agra to find some long-lost treasure. But something went wrong, and instead of extracting him, the government left him for dead. He was captured and imprisoned but managed to escape with the help of a woman who was imprisoned with him. When they were free, she revealed that she was the last of the royal Mughal line, and that she knew where the treasure was hidden. She just didn’t have the key to open it up.

                “As you can imagine, my father was not keen on helping the British government after they’d abandoned him in Agra. And he’d fallen in love with my mother, and she with him, so they made a plan. He would return to England as a double agent, obtain the key, and when he did, they would meet and she would lead him to the treasure. He put her on a plane to America and promised to be with her soon. And he never saw her again.”

                Mary gripped the key tightly in her palm. “He had this key with him, that night that I’d come to kill him. He’d finally managed to get his hands on it, after all those years, and he was making plans to find my mother. The government must have found out that he took it, he said, and assigned someone to kill him so that they could take it back.” She looked up, her tears dried in sudden anger. “‘ _Someone?_ ’” she said, hollowly. “ _I_ was ‘someone?’ Just a random assassin, coincidentally assigned to kill my very own father? No. No, we realized then and there that it wasn’t a coincidence. The British government had found out who I was—who my mother was—and had purposely requested me from the CIA, to put me in the same room as my father and the key, expecting that I knew the secret of the location of the treasure and that I would lead them all right to it.” Mary clenched her jaw, her body shaking with rage. “They didn’t care about us, about our lives, about my mother’s claim to what rightfully belonged to her family. All they cared about was the treasure, and their stupid, stupid pride.” By this time, Mary’s arm had fallen and the gun was at her side. She stared down at the key again, shining brightly in the dull, florescent light. “My father and I tried to escape that night. It was all we could do, knowing that we were being hunted by MI6. But they found us, and they killed him. Right in front of me, they killed him, and took back the key.

                “I managed to get away, but I vowed from that day forward that my entire life—everything I did—would be to avenge my father’s death. And the best way I knew to do that was to take the treasure from them once and for all. I’ve spent my whole life since then trying to do just that; I found out where the treasure was hidden, I found out who had they key. I teamed up with James Moriarty in an attempt to leverage the power and influence of the network he was building. Through him I found Mycroft Holmes, gateway to the whole of the British government, whose weakness was Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock, whose weakness was Dr. John Watson. I figured that if I could seduce the doctor, I could exploit my way up the chain to get what I wanted. It didn’t exactly work like I planned, but…” Mary’s face was tranquil again as she looked up at them. “It looks like I’ve succeeded, anyway.” She pocketed the key and stooped to pick up another gun on the ground, then raised them both, a fresh determination on her face. “And now,” she said calmly, “all three of you are coming with me.”

                “Where are we going?” Anna asked, in a very small voice.

                Mary’s mouth curled into a smile, and she gazed at Sherlock and John. “We’re going to make sure this key is authentic.”

***

                More than anything, Anna pitied her mother. As they headed southeast in the car that Sherlock had promised was “parked just out front,” she tried very hard to take her story with a grain of salt—Mary was a _LIAR_ , after all—yet it was such a sad story that Anna couldn’t help but believe her mother had been left without a choice.

 _"There’s always a choice, Annalise,”_ said Sherlock’s practical voice in her brain. It was something he’d said to her many times and would no doubt say now if she were to voice her opinion on Mary’s situation… it was just that sometimes, none of the available choices were very good. What would have been the right thing for Mary to do, when she found out the British government’s plans for her and her father? Kill him and lead them to the treasure, or go rogue to keep it with its rightful owner? Mary had done a lot of terrible things and teamed up with a lot of terrible people to get where she was…. Could it all be justified if the treasure escaped the government’s grasp?

                Sherlock slowed as they entered the city of Dover, and Anna tried to consider what she would have done in Mary’s place. Their stories weren’t that different, if you brought it down to the basics; Anna had grown up without her father, shrouded in a life of mystery and unanswered questions. She too had been trained in intelligence, to some degree. She too had killed people. She’d attempted to kill her mother (would have, if the gun hadn’t been empty) but had second thoughts after finding out about her past. And now she was on her way to aiding her mother in recovering the treasure… although, that really wasn’t her decision—she was sort of along for the ride with Sherlock and John. She looked at them both as they parked the car next to a harbor. They’d given her mother the key, after all, so they must believe she’s in the right _. Right?_

                Darkness had fallen by the time they’d found the correct dock, so they watched their steps as they walked along the row of boats gently rising and falling in the lapping waves. “Here, this one,” instructed Mary halfway down the line, motioning them all to get into a small red and yellow fishing boat with a hefty winch hanging out the back. They stepped in and sat with Sherlock in the driver’s seat and Mary next to him, and John and Anna in the back. Mary gave Sherlock the bearing to the treasure’s location, and her guns stayed alert as they sped away across the sea.

                The night was cold and none of them had brought proper clothing for a December night on the water, so by the time they reached their destination they were all four shivering. “Stop here,” chattered Mary, and Sherlock slowed the boat to a stop.

                “Where are we?” whispered Anna, looking around them. There was no land in sight.

                “I dunno,” John whispered back.

                “John!” Mary barked, and John and Anna both looked at her. “Go in that bench underneath your seat cushion, there’s a wetsuit and an oxygen tank.” John stood up and rummaged around in the bench before finally extracting those two items. He closed the bench again and held them out to her. “Sorry, darling,” she told him, “I’m afraid I can’t go, as I’ve got to keep an eye on the other two; and you’re the only one who will fit into my suit.”

                “I am most certainly not—“ he haughtily began, but stopped once he caught sight of Sherlock’s expression. “You can’t be serious? _Honestly,_ for God’s sake—“ He clenched his jaw in anger and began undressing, grumbling to himself. “Why do I _always_ … Bloody _freezing_ out here… Gimp knee, probably can’t even _swim_ properly…”

                “You’re looking for an iron box, about as long as your forearm, and three times as tall,” Mary told him, when he’d finally dressed. “Should be directly below us; I moved it out here a short time ago. Just swim down and hook this onto it.” She pulled a length of cable from the winch. “Then give it a tug, and we’ll crank it up.”

                John again looked at Sherlock, and sighed. He sat on the edge of the boat, put the breathing tube in his mouth, and fell backwards over the side with a splash.

                Five quiet minutes passed while the other three sat silently in the rocking boat. The wind picked up, and Anna began to shiver more violently. “May I?” asked Sherlock, looking at Mary and putting his hands on the front of his Belstaff.

                “Alright,” Mary nodded in response.

                Sherlock stood up to wrap the coat around Anna. She smiled weakly at him as he bent over to help her arms through the sleeves and fold the front of it around her torso. As he pulled down her arms, he deliberately slid her hands into the pockets—and Anna felt the fingers of her right hand curl around something cold and hard. _The pocket knife_ , she realized. He must have picked it up before they’d left the parking garage.

                Sherlock straightened up. “There, that should keep you warm,” he said, and turned to sit back down. Anna glanced at Mary, who was staring out at the sea, and kept her hand ready on the knife.

                A few moments later, the three of them saw a tug on the rope. Mary motioned for Sherlock to go and click the winch into gear, and they soon heard a splash as John resurfaced. Anna helped him back into the boat while Sherlock finished bringing the box up the rest of the way. He and John hoisted it over the edge and set it down heavily on the floor next to them.

                Anna watched Mary’s face turn electric with excitement. “You two,” she spoke to Sherlock and John, “sit. Anna, come and do the honors.” She motioned for her with one of her guns. “The key,” she said, “in my front pocket.”

                Anna retrieved the key and brought it back to the box, knelt in front of it, and slid it into the lock. She turned it and heard a series of clicks.

                “It’s working!” Mary exclaimed, breathlessly.

                Suddenly, a spotlight hit the little boat and there came a roar of an engine. Anna put up a hand to shield her eyes. “ _Drop your weapons and put your arms in the air!”_ a voice boomed over the water. When Anna’s vision had adjusted to the light, she could see a police boat coming close, the silhouettes of men with guns pointed out at them. She put her hands up; John and Sherlock did the same.

                But Mary was still pointing both guns, livid with the turn of events. _“Drop your weapons!”_ shouted the voice again. Instead of obeying, she leapt forward and grabbed Anna across the shoulders, holding one of the guns against her temple. “Get off the boat, both of you!” she snarled, turning to the side so that the arm that held Anna’s shoulders could still point its gun at John and Sherlock. They stared at her, unmoving.

                Mary gritted her teeth and squeezed the trigger.

 _Bang!_ Sherlock reached for his shoulder and pitched backward, losing his balance and falling into the water. “Sherlock!” John and Anna both screamed, and John rushed to the side of the boat.

                Mary used John’s distraction to take action. She smacked Anna’s head with the butt of her gun and jumped into the driver’s seat, pushing the throttle all the way down. John tumbled out the back of the boat with the sudden momentum, and Anna, not quite unconscious but not coherent, either, rolled into the treasure chest. Bullets pelted the side of Mary’s boat as she sped away, one smashing the windshield to pieces with a loud _CRASH_. She ducked down as low as she could, turning one arm back and shooting out at the police boat following her.

                One thing was certainly clear; Mary Watson was not going to go down without a fight.


	33. Part Six: The Game is On

                Mycroft was not used to these sorts of antics. Going into the field was not his cup of tea, never had been. All of the adrenaline, and blood,  and loud noises... it was quite a nuisance. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t do it. No, if Mycroft had wanted, he could have been the best field agent the British government had ever seen. He knew it inherently and that had always been quite enough to satisfy his ego. He didn’t actually need to _prove_ anything.

                 “GO! GO! GO!” he screeched at the driver, as Sherlock turned around and helped John the rest of the way into the boat.

                For nearly thirty years Mycroft had helped MI6 searched for the Agra treasure, to no avail. But once Mary popped back up on the radar, he came up with a brilliant plan: to release the key into the world for her to find. The trouble was he couldn’t convince the imbeciles at the government to go along with it. “She’s the only one left who knows where the treasure is hidden,” he’d said, over and over. “We give her the key, we follow her to it. What could be simpler?”

                “We tried that already,” was their response.

                “Yes, you tried it half-baked, before Mary actually knew who she was and that such a thing called the ‘Agra treasure’ existed at all. She hadn’t been told a _thing_ about her past when you enacted your whim of a plan. But now she knows. And now she _wants_ it.”

                “She won’t go for it,” they said. “She’s too smart.”

                Mycroft had rolled his eyes. “She may be smart, but she’s also desperate. She’s come out of hiding, married John Watson, of all people, pet of my brother Sherlock Holmes-who, as we all know from my pleading for your leniency in regards to the case of Mr. Magnussen’s unfortunate demise, holds a detestably special place in my heart. If she’s not trying to manipulate her way up the chain of sentiment and into the government’s secret vaults, then my name isn’t Mycroft Holmes. She’s desperate, she’s exposed, and she’s proving that she will do anything to get at that key. So give it to her.”

                But they wouldn’t, the stubborn, thickheaded idiots. So Mycroft did it instead. Couldn’t really call it breaking-in or stealing, he simply used his clearance to get to the key and borrowed it without permission, then sent it out to his contacts on the black market and waited for Mary to bite. However, he had made a serious error. He hadn’t discovered at the time that Mary and Moriarty were working together; so, when the key ended up in _Moriarty’s_ grasp _,_ and Mycroft was horrified (and rightly so) at what that criminal might do with the power of his network behind him, he attempted to rectify his mistake by sending John and Sherlock in to steal it back before the government caught wind that it was missing. But of course, John was “killed” and Moriarty escaped with the key, and with Mary, and try as he might to keep them in his sight, Mycroft lost track of them all. He had to admit to losing the key, and the British government had to give up the Agra treasure as gone for good.

                Mycroft Holmes had never been the type of man to hold a grudge. He considered himself above that petty, human resentment. He was a smarter man, a stronger man, a more important man, than to get mixed up in all that business. But oh, how he’d held a grudge against Jim Moriarty. Not only had the man been a thorn in the country’s side and turned his brother’s life a living hell, but he’d made a fool of Mycroft, ruined his reputation, and had almost gotten him fired. Mycroft wanted to destroy Moriarty in every possible sense of the word. So most of what he’d said to Molly was true—he’d planned to exploit Sherlock and Anna to bring down his mortal enemy—but his reasoning behind it was not for some noble purpose, to protect his country or whatever it was he’d told her.

                It was good, old-fashioned revenge.

                However, as recent events had proven, the treasure was still within Mycroft’s grasp. When Sherlock had come to him and told him as much, Mycroft was beside himself with excitement. If he got the treasure, perhaps he could redeem his name within the government circles. He then had two goals in mind: to bring down Moriarty, and to reclaim the treasure. Well, one of those things had happened— and the other one was just a few boat-lengths away.

                “FASTER!” shrieked Mycroft, pulling out a gun and firing as they sped over the waves.

                “ _Mycroft!_ ” Sherlock roared, deep and commanding. “ _Anna is still in that boat!”_

                Mycroft swallowed and tried to calm himself—but that didn’t quite work, because Mary’s bullets began to hit their craft. All of them ducked down at the sound of the artillery, all except for the driver, who was promptly shot through the eye. The boat slowed abruptly and the other three pitched forward. “Oh, for God’s sake,” groaned Mycroft, grabbing the dead driver by the collar and hauling him out of the seat. He slid down in his place and the boat was off again, in hot pursuit.

                “Where’s all the backup you promised?” Sherlock shouted, angrily, taking Mycroft’s gun up for himself with his one good arm. The other hung limply at his side, blood dripping steadily onto the floor.

                John moved to have a look at the wound. “Sherlock, I think she may have hit an artery—”

                Sherlock shook him off. “Leave it!” he snarled, then whipped back around. “ _Mycroft!_ ”

                “This is all I could get!” Mycroft spat back. He was not exactly on good terms with the government officials; the board had all but laughed in his face when he’d requested resources for yet another mission involving Moriarty and the Agra treasure.

                “Damn it, Mycroft!” Sherlock swore. “I thought you said—“

                “I know what I said!” Mycroft yelled back, clearly just as livid.

                “She’s out of bullets!” John suddenly shouted. Mycroft and Sherlock both started and realized that they’d been too busy bickering to notice how Mary had stopped shooting.

                Mycroft’s foot pressed all the way to the floor. The engine roared and the boat sliced through the water like a torpedo, catching huge amounts of air as it was launched over the waves.

                But they didn’t seem to be getting any closer.

***

                “Fuck.”

                The word stirred Anna to consciousness, her head pounding terribly from the blow Mary’s gun had inflicted. She looked up from the floor to see her mother’s blond hair whipping in the wind, the salty channel spray flying up the sides of the boat with every wave they hit. Mary was searching around frantically for something… and then she tossed the gun aside in anger.

 _Must have run out of bullets,_ Anna realized.  She sat up and looked out the back of the craft. The other boat was still in pursuit, but her heart sank as she realized it was slowly receding into the night. She needed to stop their boat, or Mary might lose the other and then… and then who knew what would happen. Mary was most definitely not a sane person, and Anna was not willing to be a prisoner of the insane again. She felt for the pocket knife in Sherlock’s coat and gripped the side of the boat to help herself stand up. She gritted her teeth and readied to pounce—but then Mary turned around, and their eyes met.

                Something tugged at Anna’s heart. That was her _mother_ , that she was looking at. True, the woman was selfish and crazy and probably evil and Anna didn’t know her from Eve, but… she was her _mother_. Anna couldn’t kill her. She just couldn’t.

                So what _could_ she do?

                “Anna,” Mary called over the sound of the straining engine. “Anna, please, listen to me.” Anna looked around the boat, ignoring Mary’s voice. _What to do, what to do, what to—_

                She spotted the treasure, at her feet.

                “I know that I haven’t been a good mother—or any sort of mother, really—“ Mary began, but then stopped suddenly as she watched Anna bend down and grab the handles of the iron box. “Anna, what are you—“

                Anna tried to lift the whole thing by herself, but she wasn’t strong enough. So, instead, she flung open the lid. The brightly-colored jewels inside glittered devilishly at her, even in the moonlight. She dug in with both hands and scooped out a good chunk of them.

                “Anna!” Mary shrieked, horrified. “Anna, no!”

                Anna met her eyes for an instant, then turned and flung the treasure into the deep, black sea.

***

                John squinted at Mary’s boat. The spotlight from their own was still shining on it, though just barely, for the other had been steadily pulling away. But he could still see, by the dim light, someone with long, dark hair throwing something rather sparkly over the back. “What the hell is she…”

                “What?” Mycroft shouted, his eyesight not quite as good as it once was.

                “Anna,” said Sherlock, and John watched his face relax into a smile. “She’s tossing it.”

                Mycroft looked up at his brother in confusion. “Tossing wh—“ He stopped abruptly, and his eyes grew wide and his face white. “NO!” His voice crackled with rage. “NO! STOP HER!” He rounded frantically on Sherlock and John, knowing full well that they were as powerless as he. “Tell her to stop!”

                “Christ,” said John, disbelieving it. He turned back to Sherlock again.

                Sherlock’s grey eyes were full of vigor, contrasting mightily with his deathly pale complexion. He smiled again, weakly, as the three of them watched Anna throw handful after handful of the great Agra treasure into the sea behind.

                “That’s my girl,” he said.

***

                Mary was paralyzed with indecision. She needed to stop Anna from throwing the treasure out to sea, but she also couldn’t leave the driver’s seat—the other boat would catch up with them. So she continued to shout, alternating between pleading and threatening… but none of it seemed to have any effect. Finally, Mary fell silent and stared out into the barely-visible horizon in front of them, flat with the miles and miles of water beyond, and began to cry. Her face was numb from the cold and the wind, but she could still feel her nose dripping mucus into her mouth. It was salty, but warm instead of cool, so she could tell the difference between it and the seawater that sprayed her face.

                She looked back at Anna, who’d finally thrown the iron box’s few remaining contents over the back of the boat. The girl clambered back down to the floor and rested there, her back against the back of the craft, hair whipping around her face in knots. Mary noticed that her expression was not malicious, or triumphant, or afraid; it was purely one of pity.

                “Stop, Mom,” Anna said.

                Mary’s anger left her then, in one emptying rush. She realized, with a terrible pain in her heart, that she’d done to Anna what her own father had done to her. Although she’d understood (after she finally met him) why he’d stayed in England while her mother was in America, she’d still grown up without him. That had been very, very hard. Not only had she had just one parent to raise her, but her whole life had been swathed in secrets, right down to the color of her eyes. She had never been able to find her own identity. _That’s why I joined the CIA_ , she thought bitterly. They gave her new identities, constantly—new people to be, with whole histories and backgrounds and personalities. Even if they were false, at least she had them, at least she knew who she was, even for a brief time.

                But now, seeing her thirteen-year-old daughter’s face in front of her, a face that she hadn’t been there to laugh with or comfort or watch grow up, all she felt was guilt. Anna had lived without either of her parents, her entire heritage a mystery, because Mary could not give up her obsessive need for revenge. She thought she could, once—when Anna was born, she decided that she was done with the treasure, done with Moriarty, done with that life. But then the key had appeared, and in Moriarty’s grasp, no less—and she couldn’t control herself. She had to have it.

                And now, she had nothing.

                Mary slowed the boat to a gentle stop. As the roar of the engine subsided, the sound of the one behind them grew, and she watched its maker approach. She raised her arms in the air.

***

                Mycroft pulled his boat alongside Mary’s, and Anna saw John standing squarely in the center, glaring and pointing a gun at her mother. He looked pissed off as hell, as did Mycroft, but Sherlock… she searched and found him sitting on the floor with his back resting against the bottom of the seat, slumped to one side, holding a bloodied rag on his shoulder. Anna stood shakily and peered over at him, and he gave her the weakest of smiles.

                “John, take the wheel,” said Mycroft, his voice shrill and hoarse. John did, while still managing to keep his gun aimed, and Mycroft stepped into the opposite boat. Mary didn’t look at him as he handcuffed her and forced her to sit in her seat, pointing his own gun at her face. “One move, Mary, one sudden move, and that’s all I’ll need to blow you to kingdom come, even in front of your daughter. And _you_ ,” Mycroft spat at Anna, looking at her from his periphery. “I shall deal with you later.”

                “You won’t be dealing any with her, Mycroft,” growled John. “I do believe that if you ever speak to her again, it will be over my dead body. And Sherlock’s,” he added. 

                “Of which mine shan’t be long, if we don’t start soon back to shore,” murmured Sherlock, his eyelids drooping.

                John whipped around to look at him. “You stay awake, damn it.” Then he turned to Anna. “Anna, come over here and let’s go. Mycroft will take care of Mary.”

                Anna did as she was told and climbed into the other boat. She knelt down slowly to look at Sherlock as John started the engine again. “Keep pressure on that wound,” John commanded, and Anna laid one hand on top of the other and pushed into Sherlock’s shoulder. He grimaced, and she let up.

                “No,” said Sherlock, in response to her reaction. “Best keep doing that. Yes, good. It doesn’t hurt as much, now.”

                “Liar,” Anna said, quietly. Tears started to fall from eyes.

                “I’m so proud of you,” Sherlock whispered.

                “Shut the hell up,” Anna replied, her nostrils flaring.

                “ _Language_ ,” he scolded. Then, “I am, though.”

                Anna cried harder, embarrassed but unable to stop. “Please don’t die,” she said, not looking at him.

                “Oh, I won’t,” he told her, with wheezing sound that she was sure was an attempt at a chuckle. “It takes more than a bullet wound to kill Sherlock Holmes. Just ask your father.” He glanced to where John was sitting.

                Anna felt a fresh wave of tears. “ _You_ are my father.”

                Sherlock’s eyes moved back to her face, but he didn’t say anything more. Instead he lifted his good arm and pulled her into his shoulder, resting his cheek on the top of her dark head. She nestled into the crook of his neck and stared, glassy-eyed, across the sea as John sped them to shore.


	34. Part Six: The Game is On

                Sherlock lost consciousness at some point on the way back to land, so he wasn’t aware that John, small and slight as he was now, carried him off the boat as soon as they’d hit shore; that Anna had run to the nearest person she could find, pleading with him to call an ambulance; that before the ambulance had arrived, John made Anna put as much weight as she could into Sherlock’s shoulder while he performed chest compressions to keep his heart going; that John had shoved a gun into the faces of the paramedics to make them agree to him and Anna riding in the back of the ambulance; that John held Anna’s face to his chest as the paramedics ripped open Sherlock’s shirt and attached monitoring and breathing apparatuses to his body; that John was arrested as soon as he stepped off the ambulance, Anna screaming at the police, John telling her to go into the hospital, that everything was going to be alright; that Anna stayed awake through the hours Sherlock was on the operating table, alone and afraid; that she actually hugged and _kissed_ the doctor who told her that Sherlock had pulled through.

                Sherlock didn’t know any of it, but John knew, and Anna knew, and knowing together bonded them in a sort of way that they’d never been before.

                When John finally made it back to the hospital, he found Anna curled up sleeping in a very uncomfortable-looking chair next to Sherlock’s bed. He paused to look at her, her dark hair hanging across her face in pieces, breathing so shallowly that she might have been dead. Then he picked her up and gently laid her on the window bench across the room, and covered her in a hospital blanket. He went to sit in the chair she’d been in and had a deep, long sigh. It had been quite a whirlwind week, but all of the danger had passed, and John just felt… _tired_. He yawned, rubbing his eyes.

                “You look like me,” said a voice, from across the room.

                John removed his hands from his face and saw Anna peering at him out over the blanket. He blinked. “No,” he said, starting to smile. “ _You_ look like _me_.”

                “Same difference,” Anna replied, then lapsed into silence. Suddenly, she sat up. “Do you have double-jointed thumbs?” she asked, promptly holding hers up and popping them backwards. “I’ve always wondered where I got my double-jointed thumbs.”

                John stared at them, and then responded by holding his up straight. Anna began to look disappointed, until he popped them the same way as hers. She grinned.

                “You’ve got my giant feet, too,” he said, looking at them poking out from under the blanket.

                Anna looked down, then over to his. Her eyes widened. “So you’re the one!” she accused. “I’ve always been self conscious about them. They’re _huge_.”

                “Hobbit feet,” said John. She giggled.

                “Your flatulence has the same odor, as well,” murmured a moody voice from the bed, and both Anna and John started. “If you’re searching for others.”

                They looked at each other, and burst out laughing. “Well, Sherlock’s back,” John announced, when they finally stopped. They both got up to come to Sherlock’s side. “How are you feeling?”

                “Blind,” said Sherlock, groggily. “Why is it so dark in here?”

                “I’ll get the drapes,” said Anna, going to the window.

                Sherlock’s eyes followed her across the room as he woke up a little more. “Annalise,” he said, his voice suddenly stern. “What day is it?”

                Anna turned around. “It’s… it’s December twenty-first, two thousand and twenty-eight,” she said, slowly, as if she thought Sherlock had amnesia or something.

                “A _Thursday_?” coughed Sherlock, in a weak impression of a screech. “What are you doing out of school on a weekday? John,” he rounded on him, “you may be new to parenting, but even you should know this is completely out of line. Get her back in class, at once.” He turned back to Anna. “You’ve already missed too much time, and we all know your marks cannot afford that.”

                Anna opened her mouth to protest, but John cut in first. “Now look here: she’s just been kidnapped, _twice_ , and _shot_ at, and made to sit in the sodding hospital for _hours_ wondering if you were going to live or die. Even if she didn’t one-hundred-percent deserve some time off, I doubt she’d be able to focus on her studies right now. For God’s _sake_ , Sherlock.”

                “Yeah,” said Anna, her hands on her hips. “For God’s _sake_.”

                Sherlock gazed between the two of them, an odd look on his face. It passed and he relaxed back into the pillow. “Fine,” he snapped.       

                Anna turned to John, looking very satisfied. “I’m going to get something to eat. You want to come?”

                John fidgeted and glanced back at Sherlock. “No, I think I’ll stay for a bit.” 

                Anna turned around and marched out the door, and Sherlock sighed from the bed. “So,” said John, after clearing his throat. He reached to lay his hand over the detective’s. “How _are_ you feeling? Really?” He attempted a smile.

                Sherlock glanced down at their hands together. “A bit tired, actually,” he said, pulling his away and tucking it under the blanket. “I think I’d like to take a nap.”

                “Okay…” John’s smile faded. “Do you want me to just—“ He gestured to the chair next to him.

                “No, no,” Sherlock told him. “Really, I’d just like to sleep a while. Why don’t you go for a walk, go see some of your… you know… doctor friends.”

                John looked at him. He wanted to roll his eyes and say, “I don’t have any friends here, you twat, I never worked in sodding Dover and it’s been thirteen years since I worked anywhere, anyway. And all the EMTs here hate me because I pulled a gun on them to let me in the ambulance with you.” But he didn’t say that. The look on Sherlock’s face puzzled him—it was clear he just wanted John to leave. “Okay,” he said instead. He attempted a smile again, but felt he didn’t quite make it. “I’ll check on you in a bit, then.”

                “Thanks,” said Sherlock. He closed his eyes.

***

                After much convincing, John and Anna went back to Baker Street alone. Mycroft had arranged for Sherlock to be moved to a hospital in London the very next morning, and Sherlock insisted that he didn’t need either of them to help escort him in the ambulance. He didn’t seem to notice that they were both offended at not being wanted, but then again, that was just typical Sherlock. Still, Anna was quiet most of the cab-ride back, resting her feet on the back of the seat in front of her and facing out the window. John stole a glance in her direction and found her staring through the glass. “Are you alright?” he asked.

                Anna shifted in her seat and brought her hands to her lap, taking turns digging her nails into the opposite tips of her fingers, one-by-one. “I don’t know what to call you,” she said, finally.

                John looked over at her again, surprised. He hadn’t really thought about that. “Well… what do you _want_ to call me? I’m fine with whatever,” he went on, hoping to set her at ease—though he didn’t know how he’d feel about her calling him anything but “Dad.”

                “I dunno,” Anna began. “All my life, whenever I talked to you, I called you ‘Dad.’”

                John felt a warm sensation in his chest. “You… you talked to me?”

                “Of course I talked to you,” she said, eying him. “Sherlock’s a shite listener, don’t you know that?”

                John chuckled. “You’re right, he rather is. So, it’s ‘Dad,’ then?” he asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

                Anna chewed the inside of her cheek. “Well, see, that’s the thing… I _know_ you’re that person I always talked to, but now that you’re really here, it doesn’t feel the same. It’s like there’s the real you, and then there’s my Dad.”

                John’s throat tightened. “Yeah, I think I know what you mean,” he said, remembering how strange it had been when he’d realized Sherlock wasn’t the same person that he’d imagined for the last thirteen years. “I suppose I have to earn it, the title of ‘Dad.’”

                Anna gazed at him. “It’s not that. You don’t have to earn anything… I mean, there’s nothing to earn. What I was trying to say was that I can’t use the word ‘Dad,’ like, _ever_. I just can’t. It means something that you could never be. I don’t mean that in a bad way,” she amended, quickly. “Just, I’ve used it for so long to mean the person that I tell all my thoughts to. Things I’d never actually tell someone. Like a… a…”

                “Like God,” John suggested.

                Anna smirked, and it was the first smile John had seen since they’d talked about their big feet in Sherlock’s hospital room. “I was going to say ‘imaginary friend,’” she said, wryly. “But by all means, tell me what you really think of yourself.”

                “Well,” said John, his face flushing. He smiled, sheepishly, and she grinned.

                They pulled up to 221B, then, and both stayed in the car for a moment, gazing at the front door. John turned back to his daughter. “Anna, I think you should call me ‘John,’” he decided, realizing that it was the only viable option. “It’s not just that the word ‘Dad’ is off limits… I mean, there are plenty of other names for ‘Dad.’ It’s that…” John struggled to find the proper words. “Sherlock’s been more of a father to you than I have. So far, anyway. And you don’t even call _him_ anything that means ‘Dad.’ It wouldn’t be fair to him, you see.”

                Anna considered him, for a second, then smiled. “You know, you’re not quite as thick as Sherlock said you were.”

                “Thick, eh?” John snorted. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” They got out of the car, and faced the front door of 221B.

                It opened wide and there was Mrs. Hudson, about to take out the trash.

                “Shite,” John said, because in all their haste, they'd forgotten to tell her he was alive. The landlady was more stooped than she had been, and her hair was no longer colored, but grey, and shorter than he remembered. She had been old before, but now… and with that look on her face, absolutely petrified with shock… “Shite, Mrs. Hudson, I’m so sorry.”

                Mrs. Hudson gave a little sigh and swayed in place.

                Both John and Anna started forward to catch her, and she collapsed weakly in their arms. John took the brunt of the force, and knelt on the ground, leaning her backward. She stared up at him with glassy eyes and lifted a trembling hand to his cheek.

                “Is it you?” she asked, searching his face. “Is it really John Watson?”

                John didn’t respond, couldn’t, emotion was suddenly choking out his words. “Yes, Mrs. Hudson,” said Anna, softly. She was holding her other hand, sitting next to her. “Yes, it’s him.”

                Mrs. Hudson’s old eyes crinkled into a smile even as her lips contorted with a sob. “Oh, John.” Anna let go of her hand as she lifted both her frail arms to him.

                John felt his face wobble violently, and he embraced her, turning his head to the side and trying to regain his composure. “Mrs. Hudson,” he whispered. She squeezed him tight, which was barely a squeeze at all, for her, and he squeezed back.

                “Oh, let me look at you,” she sniffed, pushing away.

                John reluctantly let her go and helped her sit up so that she could see him properly. She put her hands on his shoulders to study his face, crying shamelessly, and he was doing everything in his power not to do the same.

                “You’re…” she began, her eyes widening. “You’re so _thin!_ ”

                John let out a burst of laughter through his tears. He glanced over at Anna, who was shaking her head, her own eyes wet.

                “You must come in and eat something,” the landlady went on, in that endearingly bossy way that he remembered so well. “Both of you.” She looked over at Anna, finally, and reached one hand out to her while the other still rested on John’s shoulder. “So lovely to see you, dear. Sherlock was ever so worried about you. Where is he, by the way?”

                "Not far," said Anna, and the three of them went up to the flat.

***

                After Mrs. Hudson had a good fuss over them both and Anna had gone up to bed at last, John sat at the kitchen table and watched her wash the dishes in the sink. “Mrs. Hudson, I really should do those,” he said, noticing her stooped shoulders again.

                “Nonsense,” she chided, as she picked up another plate. "I’m perfectly fine.”

                John bit his lip. “You don’t still clean house for them, do you?”

                She chuckled. “Of course I do. Who else would?”

                “But,” he protested, “you’re just—you’re so—”

                Mrs. Hudson whipped around, faster than John would have thought, and gave him a glare. “John Watson, don’t you dare say I’m old!”

                John flushed pink. “You… well, don’t you have a hip?” he accused.

                Mrs. Hudson’s glare suddenly became a twinkle. “Oh love,” she said, chuckling again and turning back to the sink. “I’ve got _two_ , now!”

                John smiled and shook his head at her, fondly. But he began to look around anyway, a discreet inspection to make sure she was indeed handling the cleaning. And she was right, it was clean. In fact, everything looked _too_ clean…. “Quite different in here from how it was before,” he remarked. “No experiments, no body parts… Sherlock must be very busing solving crimes.”

                “Oh, goodness no, Sherlock doesn’t solve crimes anymore,” replied Mrs. Hudson, drying her hands on a dish towel. “Not like he used to, anyway.”

                She made her way to sit next to him, and began to tell a story.


	35. Part Seven: A Beginning

                John did an about-face for the umpteenth time, and stepped forward— _one, two, three, four, five, six, seven_ —turned again— _foot on the crack, toe barely on, heel on, open square, open square, direct center_ —turn. He rubbed his hands over his face, felt a little pain. He knew it was getting raw, but he couldn’t help it, it was a nervous habit, he did it before he even realized he was.

                Sherlock watched him silently from the bench, his back straight and his hands clasped in his lap. His narrow, grey eyes followed the doctor back and forth as he paced, but the rest of his face was very still. _Wanker_ , John thought. _How can he be so calm?_ He forced an exhale through his teeth, and hooked his hands behind his neck as he turned again. He looked up at the clock across the hallway. Mary had been in emergency caesarean surgery for three hours and twenty-three minutes, two minutes longer than when he’d last checked.

                “Try for three next time.”

                John whirled and caught the hint of a smile crossing Sherlock’s expression. Gently poking fun, attempting to make light… that was usually John’s job, and he felt guilty that Sherlock had been forced into it, yet again. He sighed and reluctantly plunked down next to his friend. “I hate this, Sherlock,” he muttered, his hands smoothing the tender flesh over his cheeks. “I hate that I can’t do anything.”

                “I know,” Sherlock said.

                “This bloody waiting,” John went on. It felt good to complain, even though it wouldn’t do anything to change the situation. He leaned forward on his knees. “I can’t do it.” He took a shaky breath, and gripped the edge of the wooden seat.

                “She’ll be alright.” Sherlock’s voice was gentle, and John didn’t know whether to be pleased or angry that he was being so tranquil.

                “But what if she’s not?” John asked. “What if she… she…” He swallowed. “What would I _do?_ I can’t raise a baby by myself!” He laughed bitterly at the prospect—what an absolute nightmare, that would be.

                Sherlock shifted in his seat for the first time in an hour. “Well, I would help you, of course.”

                John looked up in surprise. “You? Help me raise a baby?” He tried to picture it, and the picture was, frankly, hilarious. He started to smile. “I’d pay to see you change a nappy. Or try to deal with her when she cries. I can hear it now—‘John! Why’s she crying? What for? Make it stop!’” He chuckled, his mind jumping to all the other scenarios they might come across. “I suppose you’d be okay with the ‘not sleeping’ thing,” he said, thoughtfully. “God, you’d probably have her doing experiments before she could talk. Solving crimes by age two. She’d grow up in the bloody morgue.” He was thoroughly amused now. He could just see it, a toddler in a long, black coat, collar all popped, the miniature version of Sherlock Holmes. Someone to teach, someone to train—Sherlock would absolutely love that, he could show off all he wanted and she’d eat it all up, hero-worship him. He’d be over the moon. Until, at least, she became— “A teenager, though. Oh, you’d have a field day when the boys started coming round. You’d scare the living shite out of them.”

                “Boys?” echoed Sherlock, dryly. “Please, John. She won’t be allowed to date until age thirty, at a minimum.”

                He looked so much the stern father that John couldn’t help but chuckle again. “You’d have a very rude awakening, you would,” he teased. He smiled and Sherlock met it with a sort of smile of his own—though the expression behind his eyes was… well, John didn’t know what it was. It was definitely not happy. John’s amusement faded, a little, and they stared at each other. And he thought, _It might not be so bad to raise a baby with Sherlock Holmes. It might be rather fun._

                “Dr. Watson?”

                John was out of his seat in a flash, all previous trains of thought forgotten. “Yes,” he said, to the surgeon standing in front of them with the clipboard in her hands. “How is she?”

                The surgeon looked at him with kind eyes and a smile. “ _They_ , Dr. Watson,” she corrected him. “You should be asking, how are _they_.”

***

                Sherlock stood in the middle of the sitting room, his injured shoulder in a sling, looking very, very uncomfortable as John began to cry.

                They’d all three come back to 221B, him, John, and Anna, the following Sunday. Sherlock tasked Anna to help him climb out of the car (he was still a bit weak and unsteady) but John overrode him, telling her to go put the kettle on. Anna trotted upstairs as John smiled and laced his arm through Sherlock’s. But once he was standing, Sherlock pulled away. “I think I can take it from here,” he said, slowly walking across the sidewalk.

                John frowned in concern. “Are you sure?”

                “Yes. I’m perfectly fine,” Sherlock answered, willing himself not to stumble or fall over. He made it up the stairs without any major trouble and stepped into his flat, looking around and letting out a relieved breath. He was _home_. He heard Anna bustling about with the tea and smiled warmly in her direction; seeing her back in the flat made him happier than he could have imagined.

                “I suspected you’d be wanting new clothes,” said John, his voice an intrusion into Sherlock’s warm thoughts. He set down Sherlock’s bag of the few he’d had at the hospital. “I took the liberty of washing some of your laundry—it’s folded on the bed. I wasn’t sure where you liked to put them nowadays, and _I_ don’t have that much stuff yet, but I figured you’d want a say in how we divvied up the space.”

                Sherlock was unpleasantly surprised at this little speech, and John apparently wasn’t too daft to tell that something was wrong. “Out with it,” he said, hands on his hips. “Come on, you’ve been acting strange ever since you woke up in the hospital. What’s the problem?”

                In Sherlock’s periphery, he saw Anna glance back at them over her shoulder. “John, you don’t… I mean you’re not… moving _in_ ,” he said, slowly.

                John blinked at him. “What?”

                “He already has,” said Anna, from the kitchen, her voice laced with worry.

                “Anna, go see if Mrs. Hudson needs help with anything,” Sherlock ordered, not taking his eyes off John.

                “She’s not home.”

                “Go anyway.”

                “Why does she have to go?” John asked, his voice higher than before. “What are you going to say that she can’t hear?”

                “Just come get me when it’s over,” Anna said. She flew through the door and down the stairs.

                “What are you on about?” John asked, not knowing if he should be angry or upset.

                Sherlock took a deep breath. “John, you can’t stay here.”

                John’s face grew hard. “And why the hell not?”

                “Well,” Sherlock began carefully, “we don’t have a room for you.”

                “ _Your_ room, Sherlock,” said John, beginning to growl. “I’m going to stay in _your_ room.”

                “Then where will _I_ stay?”

                “With _me_ ,” John told him, his face reddening. “We’re… that’s what people do when they’re… _together_.”

                Sherlock closed his eyes. He started to feel weak and put his hand out to steady himself on John’s chair… and felt his stomach twist at the realization that, after all these years, it was still “John’s” chair. “John, you know that I… that my whole purpose, my whole goal, was to rescue Anna,” he said. “You know that I would have done anything…”

                “What? What are you talking about?” John interrupted. “You’re going to have to spell it out for me, Sherlock.”

                Sherlock swallowed.

_I used you._

                No, that wasn’t right. That wasn’t _exactly_ what happened….

                “I could tell,” he finally began, “that you couldn’t get past how you… _felt,_ about me. And we didn’t have time for you to work through those feelings, because every moment that passed was another moment that Moriarty had his claws in Anna. So I decided to sort of…” he licked his lips, thinking that however he put it, it wasn’t going to sound good, “…play along.”

                John clenched his jaw and ground it back and forth as he worked out what Sherlock meant. “Play along?” he repeated, finally. “ _Play along?”_ His voice got significantly louder.

                “John—“

                “WE HAD SEX!” John bellowed. “That’s ‘playing along _?’_ That’s bloody _playing along?_ ”

                Sherlock couldn’t meet his eyes.

                “You can’t,” John said, his voice breaking. “You can’t tell me that it was all a lie. You bloody can’t, Sherlock. I know it wasn’t. I _felt_ it wasn’t.”

                “It was something you needed,” said Sherlock, quietly. “You needed it. You said you wanted to know the plan, but you didn’t, all you wanted was to hear that I loved you—and I _needed_ you, to help me bring Anna home.”

                John started to cry. “I should have known you would do this to me. In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never given a _fuck_ about my feelings. I can’t believe I…”

                “John—“

                “This is what you _do_. This is what you always do. How could I think that you’d treat me any different? How could I possibly have thought I was different?” John angrily tried to wipe away his tears. “No,” he said, “I’ll tell you why. Because you loved me, Sherlock. You _loved_ me. I know you did. I saw it when I was standing in that bloody glass cage, about to meet my death—you _loved_ me. It wasn’t a sham, it wasn’t a show, it wasn’t for a case—it was real.”

                Sherlock sighed, heavily. “I did feel something, then,” he confessed. “But it’s been thirteen years.”

                “It’s been thirteen fucking years for me too!”

                Sherlock shook his head. “You don’t understand. I didn’t spend those years dreaming about you, thinking about you, in that way. I thought you were _dead_. I had to let it all _go_.”

                “But you can’t,” said John, stubbornly. “You can’t let something like that go. It’s with you forever.”

                “ _I_ could,” Sherlock said. “And I did.”

                John didn’t respond, but Sherlock could tell he was heartbroken. He turned and shuffled to the window, running his hands over his face and through his hair. Sherlock kept standing with his arm resting on the chair, waiting for John to say something more.

                “So what are we going to do about Anna?” John finally asked, turning around. His demeanor had grown very cold. “We going to share her, switch off weekends? She’s a child of divorce, now, is she?”

                “Well, she was an orphan before,” Sherlock snapped, not liking the change in John’s attitude. “So ‘child of divorce’ will be an improvement. Besides, we only had sex, we weren't _married_.”

                John glared at him. “Right. Well, I’ll just go get my things and be out of your life.” He turned on his heel and stomped toward Sherlock’s bedroom.

                Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes again, his face pale with exhaustion. He collapsed in his chair, laying his head back and listening to John throwing things around as he packed his bag.

                “Sherlock?”

                Anna crept up the stairs, looking at him. “What—“ she started, as John came down the hall with a backpack on his shoulder. “Where are _you_ going?” she asked, the obvious question.

                John’s face was sad again. “I thought I’d go to Molly’s, see if she’ll put me up until I can find a place.” He glared sideways at Sherlock.

                “What? You’re leaving? Why?” She, too, looked at Sherlock. “What’s going on?”

                “I’ll let Sherlock explain—because _I_ don’t even understand it.” He stepped forward and planted a rough kiss on the top of her head, then limped down the stairs without another look back.


	36. Part Seven: A Beginning

                If Anna were to imagine the most unfair thing possible, it would be this exact moment: she’d finally had a father, _her_ father, Dr. John Hamish Watson _in the flesh_ , and Sherlock had sent him away.

                She stomped up the stairs—loud enough to be heard in the adjoining flats, probably—all the while knowing it was immature, but not being able to help herself. It was just so un _fair_ , Sherlock was such a tit, and a coward to boot, and how immature of him to send John away, and not even just to send him _away_ , but to tell him… to say that he didn’t… that he....

                Because of course, Anna had listened. She’d run downstairs and then tiptoed back up and stood just outside the door. As _if_ she was going to go out of earshot when Sherlock and John were having a domestic.

                It had been fun the last few days, having John there in the flat. Anna hadn’t expected it to be fun; she’d expected it to be awkward, and uncomfortable, and a little dull, but not _fun_. After she’d slept for a good fourteen hours that first night, she’d spent the entire next day catching him up on everything he’d missed while he was “dead.” She’d ended up showing him the files and files of videos that Sherlock had taken of her growing up—not all of them, because there were too many to count—and watching herself as she’d taken her first steps, done her first chemistry experiment in the kitchen, won first place in the junior fiddle competition. And then she’d told him stories, _gobs_ of stories, and his eyes had been bright, and Anna had never felt more simultaneously devastated and ecstatic. He hadn’t experienced any of those stories firsthand but he was here, alive, now.

                And afterwards, John had ordered take-away from three different restaurants that he’d missed and had dusted off some of old vinyl records that Sherlock had stockpiled long ago for some case or another, and they’d listened to music lying on their backs in the middle of the sitting room.

                “I didn’t know you liked music,” Anna had said, staring up at the ceiling. Her bloated stomach gurgled obnoxiously.

                “Well, pretty much everyone likes music,” he replied.

                “Yes but,” said Anna, “this music is _good_.”

                John snorted. “Tired of classical?”

                “Ha!” said Anna. “You have no idea.”

                John was quiet for another few bars. “It used to be your favorite.”

                She rolled her head to the side to look at him. “My favorite?”

                He nodded. His arms were star-fished out by his sides, and he was gazing straight up. “It was the only way I could get you to stop crying, for a while. Sherlock’s idea.”

                Anna had almost forgotten that John had known her before, that there’d been a time before with all of them—him and Sherlock, and her. That there was a time even before that, _before_ her, when it had just been Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

                Finally finished with stomping up the steps, Anna slammed the door behind her (for good measure) and tried to go to The Void. She needed to disconnect from reality, for a few minutes, at least, because reality was so stupid that she didn’t want to live in it right now. She plugged in her headphones and turned on the music—but it wasn’t working, she wasn’t going anywhere, so she just laid there on her bed and cried instead. None of it was fair, not John, or Sherlock, or Mycroft, or her mother, or Sam, or Heidi, or David, or those guards at the museum. Moriarty was the least fair of them all, his laughing face full of bullets and blood.

                It was then that she noticed Tchaikovsky playing in her ear. Anna couldn’t remember what piece, but she knew it was him. “ _Sherlock’s idea_ ,” she echoed. She stopped crying, and fell asleep.

                When she awoke, several hours later, she took off her headphones and padded downstairs to the sitting room. Sherlock was in his chair, staring at the fire, a sort of glazed, gaunt look on his face. Anna stopped at the bottom of the steps and watched him for a while, and eventually he sighed and straightened up. “Come over here,” he said.

                Anna did as she was bid. “I just don’t understand,” she told him, softly. “Why did you send him away? Why, when my _whole_ life all you’ve done is make me wish he was here?”

                Sherlock looked up at her. “Because I am a selfish arsehole.”

                Anna laughed. She couldn’t help it.

                His gaze softened and he continued. “I was selfish, for a long time. I forced his memory on you all those years, but it was never for your benefit, it was for mine... I see that now.” He paused. “And I sincerely apologize, for that.”

                Anna sniffed away a few oncoming tears. “It’s okay,” she said, after a moment. “You just… loved him. I always understood that.”

                Sherlock sighed again. “He was…” he trailed off, as if searching for the right description and not finding it. He took a deep breath. “It’s never been easy for me to explain my feelings. I can explain everything else, but I can’t explain that.”

                Suddenly, he reached out and took her hand. His skin was warm and smooth, and his grip strong, and Anna hadn’t held his hand since she was a little girl and he’d forced her to (against her strongly-stubborn will) whenever they were in a crowded space. He’d started doing it after he lost track of her once, when she was probably three years old—they’d gone to the zoo for the day and she was bored of looking at the sleepy lions, wanted to go back to the polar bears, and so she did. Apparently Sherlock had got distracted trying to provoke the lions into being a little more animated, and he’d turned around to find her gone.

                “I know you don’t understand why I sent him away,” Sherlock said. “I actually don’t, either. The idea of him here… when it’s been just you and I for so long… it was...”

                “Overwhelming,” offered Anna.

                Sherlock peered up at her. “Yes,” he agreed.

                “Then you should tell him that,” she said, suddenly stern. “None of this, ‘I used you and I feel nothing.’”

                Sherlock harrumphed. “Yes, well, I—“ He stopped, eyeing her. “Exactly how much of that conversation did you overhear?”

                Anna rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. “All of it, of course. I _am_ a spy, after all.”

***

                _Knock knock knock._

                Molly opened the front door and couldn’t keep her mouth from falling open. 

                “John!” she exclaimed.

                It was John Watson, indeed, who was standing on her doorstep and giving her a weak smile. “Hello, Molly,” he said. “I have a huge favor I need to ask.”

                Molly stared, waiting for it—although what more John could possibly ask of her, she didn’t know. She’d already given him the man she loved, what else did he want? _Stoppit, Molly_ , she said to herself. _Be nice. You never really had Sherlock to begin with, anyway._

                “Can I, erm, come in first?” John asked, awkwardly.

                “Oh!” Molly gave herself a little shake. “Of course, of course.” She backed up and stood aside so that he could enter through the door.

                John walked past her and strode into the living room, and sat on the end of her couch. Her cat mewed from the floor and jumped up onto his lap, purring. He stared at it for a moment, then reached out to give it a pet. It smiled its cat smile and arched its back under his touch.

                “Her name is Polly,” said Molly, frowning. “She’s not normally this friendly.”

                “That’s okay,” said John, continuing to stroke Polly’s back. She curled up in his lap, content, and yawned. “Don’t normally like cats.”

                Molly studied him for a moment. “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked, almost forgetting her good manners again.

                “No, no thank you,” John replied, equally polite.

                Molly walked to the chair opposite the sofa and sat down, still watching him. “John…” she began, unable to wait any longer.

                “Right,” John said. He cleared his throat. “Sherlock’s kicked me out of the flat. So I'm in need of a place to sleep tonight.”

                Molly was open-mouthed once more.

                “I was hoping...” John continued, unsure. “Well, I was hoping that I—“

                “But of course you can stay,” Molly interrupted. She didn’t know where the answer had come from, but it came out before she could stop it. Perhaps because Sherlock had kicked him out, she’d suddenly felt a little sympathetic.

                John let out a breath he’d been holding. “It would only be for tonight,” he reassured, hurriedly. “I’ll find my own rooms tomorrow—“

                “Nonsense,” said Molly. “You can stay for as long as you want. I doubt you’ll be able to find rooms tomorrow, anyway.”

                “Yeah, I thought about that,” John sighed, rubbing his face in frustration. “I haven’t got a job, or a previous address… in fact, I don’t know if I need to… I don’t have an ID or anything, anymore. I probably need to go and tell, you know, someone _official_ that I’m not actually dead.”

                Molly felt herself pale. “No, I meant, because tomorrow’s Christmas.”

                John froze. “I didn’t even… my God.” His face grew hard. “That bastard, he kicked me out on Christmas!” He barked an angry laugh, shaking his head to himself. Molly thought she heard him mutter something along the lines of “ _Typical_ ,” under his breath.

                “Well, you’re very much welcome to stay here,” she said again, firmly. “In fact, I insist.”

                John was obviously relieved. “Thank you, Molly.”

                Molly nodded, then looked down at her hands. “Would you mind if I asked… what happened?”

                “Oh…” He hesitated. “We had a bit of a row.”

                “A row? And then he kicked you out?”

                “Yeah,” said John. He pursed his lips. “He told me he didn’t love me, and he had no room for me to sleep in, and that I needed to leave.”

                Molly’s eyes widened. “ _What?”_

                “Yep.”

                “But when you both came to see me at the morgue… I though you two were…”

                “So did I,” said John, bitterly. “But apparently he was faking the whole thing to get me to cooperate with his plan.”

                “He didn’t _say_ that, did he?” Molly asked in disbelief.

                “Of course he did!” John’s voice rose, and the cat woke with a start. “Every last word of it, the insolent prick.” He stood up and the cat flew off his lap, scampering off wildly down the hall. He began to pace the room. “Tell me, Molly,” he said, turning on her. “What’s it like to shag him, for real, when he’s not using you for his bloody agenda?”

                Molly felt extremely uncomfortable. “Well,” she said slowly, looking back at her hands in her lap. “I think he was rather using me, too.”

                John stopped pacing.

                “He was upset,” she went on. “And afraid. We’d just found out that Anna’s life was in danger, and he was frustrated because he couldn’t figure it out, what they were planning… I think he was sort of grasping out for something, anything really, to make himself feel less lost. And I went with it, because, well,” she smiled a little, looking guiltily at John, “you know.”

                John nodded. Of course he knew. He moved to sit down again. “I just… he said he feels _nothing_ for me, anymore. _Nothing_ , Molly.”

                Molly narrowed her eyes, suddenly quite fierce. “Well, he’s a liar. He was a right mess after you…”

                “Died?” John supplied.

                “I mean, I wasn’t there,” Molly continued, “but Greg told me that Sherlock… well, he _sobbed_ , John. Like, not just crying—like heaving, gut-wrenching, gasping-for-breath sobs. He really loved you.”

                John shook his head. “Well, according to him, that’s all gone now.”

                Molly massaged her hands together, wondering if she should continue. “You know, he never let Anna call him ‘Dad,’” she said, deciding. “She wanted to, of course, when she was a little girl. Tried to, several times. But he’d get so angry with her when she did, he’d scold her... he’d point to one of the thousand pictures of you that he had in the flat and say something like, ‘I’m not your father. _That’s_ your father.’ That poor girl, he never let her forget she was an orphan. I think he kept that part of her empty, on purpose; I think he wanted her to love you as much as he did.”

                The cat appeared out of nowhere and jumped tentatively back onto John’s lap. He reached out to pet it again. “I still can’t believe he _raised_ her,” John said, after several seconds of silence. “That he could… that he thought he could do that. And that he did.”

                “I don’t think it was a matter of if he could,” said Molly. “I think it was more of he had to; there was no one else to do it. And since she was _your_ daughter, I think he felt it would be a crime against her life if she grew up never knowing the love of his.”

                John contemplated that as he scratched the cat under its chin. It closed its eyes and sank into his fingers. “Polly,” he said, suddenly smiling. “Polly and Molly.”

                Molly rolled her eyes. “Oh God, I know. Anna named her. She was probably eighteen months old and it only made sense in her little mind to name _my_ cat after _me_. She couldn’t say the ‘M,’ at first” Molly explained. “She called _me_ ‘Polly' for the longest time.”

                John smiled. “I bet it drove Sherlock crazy, that she didn’t pronounce words properly.”

                “You’d think that, but you wouldn’t have recognized him. That child could do no wrong. Honestly, if she’d kept up that ‘Polly’ business, I’ll wager Sherlock would have ordered me to legally change my name.”

                “So, she was spoiled,” John translated.

                “Terribly,” Molly confirmed. “There was only ever one, well, two things he made her do that she didn’t want. One was homework,” she said, “and the other was visiting the cemetery on Christmas.”

                “The cemetery?”

                Molly looked at him softly. “Your grave, John.”


	37. Part Seven: A Beginning

                It was kind of an unnecessarily morbid keeping-with-tradition, them going to the graveyard. John wasn’t actually dead, so they were going to visit… well, nothing at all. But it felt strange, the idea of them not going. They’d done it every year of Anna’s life. “It won’t be Christmas if we don’t go,” Anna told Sherlock, the night before. Sherlock didn’t say, but he agreed with her.

                They got to the cemetery early in the morning because they’d seen the weather report, that snow was supposed to roll in, and they wanted to visit before that happened. Their cab pulled up to the entrance in the dark, and they got out and walked through the winding rows to John’s gravestone.

                They stood staring at it, at the name, the dates, “Beloved Husband, Father, Friend.” That last word was Sherlock’s doing, he’d pushed for it because he’d wanted some representation. It was not fair that Mary, deceptive and cruel as she was, got the first mention of “Husband” (or any mention at all, for that matter). Maybe she’d have the first word, but Sherlock would have the last. “It’s not very specific, ’ _Friend_ ,’” the stone-carver had said, frowning. “I know,” Sherlock had told him, “but I’ll have it anyway.”

                Anna sat cross-legged on the frozen ground, in front of the stone. “Do you think they’ll take it away?” she asked, after a moment.

                Sherlock looked down at the top of her stocking-capped head. “I assume,” he said.

                She looked back up at him. “You know, that makes me a little sad. Is that weird?”

                He didn’t answer her.

                “I think it’s weird.” She looked back at the stone. “It’s almost like it’s two different people: Dead John and Live John.” She stuffed her mittened hands in her pockets, scrunching her body in on itself for warmth. “I’m going to miss Dead John.”

 _I know what you mean,_ Sherlock thought.

                Anna breathed out slowly, watching the jet of air turn to fog before her eyes. “He was kind of like an imaginary friend,” she said. “I used to talk to him all the time. For a while I couldn’t fall asleep until I’d told him all about my day. He was always such a good listener… though he seems pretty good in real life, too.”

                Sherlock smiled a little, remembering the afternoons of his endless chatter all those years ago, John sitting there, listening to it, enthralled by his brilliance. He turned back to John’s grave, staring at it some more. He stepped up to the stone and put his gloved fingers on it, tracing the word “Friend.”

                In a flash, he was back in the abandoned laboratory, before it blew to pieces. The glass cage was lit from above, glowing, pulsing with florescence. “ _Silly Sherlock, you should have believed me_.” Sherlock felt the surge of anger and fear he’d felt then, staring into John’s face and realizing it was going to be for the last time.

                Sherlock had done his best to delete the memory. He retained the knowledge that it happened, but without the actual details—the ones that were coming back, now. John’s fingertips making smudges on the glass. His breath circling a fog round his mouth as he said Sherlock’s name. The screams, the blood, as he was being beaten, and the utter hopelessness that Sherlock had felt. The _horror_ he’d felt. Deciding that he was going to get John out of that building before the bomb exploded, or die trying. John’s motionless form top-lit by those damn fluorescent lights, swaying back and forth across his vision as Lestrade carried him out of the building. The feeling of the explosion—he’d felt everything, the tremor, the percussion, the heat—and then the stomach-plummeting realization that John was dead.

                Snow began to fall.

                Sherlock let his hand fall away, the snow blurred by his tears—just debris floating through the air. There had been a lot of debris, after the explosion; the air had looked not much different than this. Sherlock allowed himself to remember one of his old fantasies, one of the first, where he’d stood up on shaky legs, turned toward the ruined building, and through the smoke and the ash had seen a figure stumbling toward him, blackened and broken, but alive. _John_. Sherlock had tripped over himself, heading toward the figure, they’d headed toward each other, they’d met, they’d—

                Sherlock blinked away the tears. _What am I doing?_ He thought, suddenly. _I don’t need that fantasy. The fantasy is_ real _—_

                “Come, Anna,” he said, straightening up and thrusting his hands into his pockets. “We’re going for a stroll.”


	38. Part Seven: A Beginning

                John awoke on Molly’s couch to a winter wonderland; there were inches and inches of snow already on the ground, on the window sills, on the rooftops of the buildings across the street. The cat, Polly, was sleeping soundly, curled up in a ball on top of John’s feet. He gently nudged it awake, and it turned to give him a little _meow_ before stretching out its front paws and yawning.

                John sat up, rubbing his eyes. He wished that Molly had a fireplace—it was the perfect morning for a cozy fire and a hot cup of tea. He stood and went over to the window, taking in the sight of the bright white snow, so far untouched by human beings; pristine, picturesque. In a few hours the plows would be out, then the cars, then the children, and the whole thing would be a pile of black, pebbly slush. But for right now, it was perfect. Magical.

                He turned his head to look down the street, noticing the Christmas lights on the houses still lit and twinkling in the morning light. And then he saw two figures, one tall, one short, traipsing down the pavement. He squinted. _No, that wasn’t—_

                Sherlock and Anna, bundled up against the cold, making their way through the drifts.

                John’s stomach lurched with anticipation. _They have to be coming here_. As they got closer, he could see that they were moving slowly, but he could hear them talking to each other, their tones cheerful and energetic. He wondered how far they’d walked, if they’d been able to take a cab part of the way. The tube didn’t exactly run between Sherlock’s and Molly’s buildings, and though they weren’t that far from each other, it was still several miles…

                John fled the window and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He felt nervous, flighty. Them coming here, did it mean… _no_. He wouldn’t allow himself to hope. Anna was _his_ daughter, too, and Sherlock was probably just bringing her round for a “Merry Christmas” courtesy visit. He and Sherlock hadn’t worked out how it would go, them sharing her—but it was just like Sherlock to come up with a plan of his own and carry it out without including John.

                There was a knock at the door and John nearly jumped out of his skin. He left the kettle heating on the stove as he padded down the hallway, trying to breathe normally, to still his racing heart. He opened the door.

                Sherlock and Anna were standing on the threshold, their coats covered in snowflakes. Their cheeks were rosy from the cold and the walk, eyes bright and friendly as they exhaled puffs of breath into the chilly air. John’s heart expanded. They looked _lovely_.

                Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but Anna did first. “Sherlock’s been a selfish arsehole,” she told John. “And that’s a direct quote from him, not me. He’s come to apologize.”

                John’s eyes flew to Sherlock’s. He looked sheepish, expectant, worried. “Has he, now?”  

                “Yes,” she confirmed. “Woke me up at bloody five o’clock this morning so we could get here.”

                John looked at her, and back to Sherlock. “Did you… you didn’t walk all the way, did you?”

                “Of course we did,” Sherlock said, as a matter of fact. “No taxi could make it through this weather.”

                “But that…” John started, in awe. “Why, that’s over five miles!”

                “And it felt like ten,” Anna said. Sherlock gave her a look, and she scowled. “The snow makes it _harder_.”

                “Not _that_ hard,” he retorted. “And what are you complaining about, you’re young, you should have more than enough energy to complete that journey without issue. I, on the other hand, am nearly fifty years old, and just returned from hospital—it is I who should be complaining.”

                “But I’m short,” Anna protested. “It’s harder for my little legs!”

                John felt like crying with joy, just hearing the two of them bicker.

                “May we come in?” asked Sherlock, tentatively.

                John jumped, remembering his manners. “Of course!” he said, stepping back to let them through. They entered the little foyer, unbuttoning their coats and unwrapping scarves, Anna taking off her cap, Sherlock fluffing his damp hair (he never had much cared for wearing a hat).

                “I believe I hear tea brewing,” said Anna, as the sound of the hot kettle whistled down the hall.

                Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Annalise, you can’t _hear_ tea brewing, it doesn’t—“

                “Oh, do shut up,” Anna cut him off. “Quit being such a know-it-all.” She stalked off to the kitchen to check on the kettle.

                Sherlock shook his head after her retreating figure. “I think she’s gotten even more ornery since she’s been back,” he said. “You’d think the whole ordeal would have made her a little more reserved, but no, it seems to have had the opposite effect.” He sighed and turned back to John. They were both keenly aware that they were standing there alone, now.

                “John—“

                “Sherlock—“

                They started at the same time, the words melding together, then stopped, smiling shyly at each other.

                “Hello,” said John.

                “Hello,” said Sherlock. “Happy Christmas.”

                “To you as well,” said John. “I can’t believe you walked here. You could have called, or waited for the weather to clear, or—“

                “Yes,” Sherlock interrupted, “but then the romance of the gesture would have been lost, now, wouldn’t it?” His eyes twinkled. “And anyway, it’s a bit of a tradition for us, Anna and I, to visit you on Christmas.”

                John flushed. “It didn’t really take you three hours, did it?”

                Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course not… five in the morning, honestly. Anna exaggerates constantly, it’s a serious problem. Never believe any of her metrics.” He ran a hand through his hair again, trying to fluff it more. He looked around. “I’d forgotten that Molly doesn’t have a fireplace. Could really use it right now.”

                “I was just thinking that, this morning,” John replied with a smile.

                Sherlock looked at him and swallowed, his face growing uncomfortable. “John, I do want to…” he shook his head. “I’m sorry. For what I said. I was just _overwhelmed_ , by the whole scenario. I mean, a week ago you were dead, and yesterday you were very much alive and sharing my bed as my… lover _._ ”

                John’s gut twisted at the word.

                “I’ve never… I haven’t had a relationship like this, with anyone. So even if we hadn’t thrown in the whole ‘unrequited love then dead for thirteen years then, surprise, alive and one hundred percent gay’ thing, I still would have been rubbish at it.”

                John’s eyes were misting. “Probably true,” he agreed. Then, “You didn’t… I mean, you didn’t really feel nothing when… when we…”

                Sherlock cleared his throat. “Of course not. I may have, erm, indulged you a bit, but it wasn’t as if I was faking.”

                “Well, that thing is a bit hard to fake,” said John, knowingly.

                It was Sherlock’s turn to flush. “I didn’t mean _that_ , I meant my _feelings_ —“

                “I know, you idiot,” John said. “It was a joke.”

                Sherlock didn’t say anything.

                “Sherlock,” John started, “I get that it’s been… too fast. I get that. I’d forgotten it, from when you came back after those two years. I’d forgotten how surreal it was, what an intrusion it seemed. I’d had a new life that finally made sense, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go back to the old one.”

                “I want to,” said Sherlock, forcefully. “I want to go back. Just… would you mind if we slowed the pace, a bit?”

                John smiled, incredibly relieved. “Of course we can.”

                Sherlock smiled back at him, one of those few, genuine, ear to ear grins that he so rarely employed.

                “Ohhh!” came an excited squeal from the kitchen.

                “Molly, shush!” Anna’s voice, scolding her. “They’ve heard us, now!”

                A second later, the both of them came out bringing the tea, Anna annoyed, Molly positively beaming. “Oh, you two!” she cried, skipping over to hug them both. They looked at each other over her shoulders.

                “Honestly, Molly,” Sherlock said, embarrassed.

                “Yes, honestly,” Anna echoed, setting the tea down on the coffee table. “You’d make a terrible spy, Molly.”

                “Oh, I know,” she admitted, wiping her eyes. “I couldn’t help it, though. If I had to root for someone… well, other than… it _would_ be John.” Sherlock and John both looked silly with embarrassment, and Molly laughed. “Well, come and sit, all of you. Let’s enjoy this Christmas morning.”


	39. Part Seven: A Beginning

                The prisoner shuffled down the hall, accompanied by three burley guards. Down the hall, around the corner, through the door, through the next door, around another corner, into the visiting room. The prisoner was escorted into a booth. She smiled coldly as she recognized her visitor, through the Plexiglas screen, with his curly locks and dark coat.

                Mary picked up the phone on the wall, and Sherlock did the same. “So,” she said, after a moment. “Have you come to gloat?”

                “Perhaps,” he replied.

                Mary leaned back in her chair. “Go on, then.”

                Sherlock considered her. “Did you really think I wouldn’t deduce it all? Because, and correct me if I’m wrong, I thought you might have actually planned it that way to begin with.”

                Mary scowled. “Which beginning? There were so many.” She sighed. “Yes, I admit that at one point in time I thought maybe you would help me. That maybe my story would justify my actions, that maybe John’s love for me was enough to convince the both of you that I was in the right. It wasn’t the original plan, but that’s what happens sometimes. Sometimes you have to alter the plan.”

                “I almost didn’t figure it out,” said Sherlock, mildly. “I’d been so wrapped up with being a father for the last thirteen years that I lost something of myself—of my observation skills, to be exact.”

                “Oh, I don’t think you should blame fatherhood for that,” she told him. “I think it has more to do with you losing John.” Sherlock looked at her, and Mary thought she might have seen a smile. “You said that he keeps you right,” she elaborated. “At our wedding, that’s what you said. He’s your _muse_ , Sherlock. _That’s_ why you figured it out, because he was back by your side. Moriarty severely miscalculated on that one; he knew that you loved John, but he thought it was all about attention, that you’d finally found someone to care about you, when no one had ever done it before. He didn’t see past that, he didn’t see that John provided something more than just a… a lapdog.”

                “And you did?” Sherlock asked.

                Mary fidgeted in her seat. “I pretended like I didn’t. Most of the time, anyway. The chemistry between the two of you, it was… intimidating. Threatening. And the more I saw you two together, the more afraid I got, because it wasn’t just chemistry between two colleagues, was it? Or even between two friends? It was more than that. I tried to ignore it, I tried to tell myself that John really did love me, that he really did want to be with me. But there was one time, right before everything went to shite… John went to visit your parents, actually, and afterward I found out they’d tried to manipulate him into a romantic epiphany.”

                “Sounds like them,” Sherlock grumbled.

                Mary nodded. “I couldn’t help myself, I told him just to let it go. To forget about what they had said.” She looked down at the table in front of her. “Part of me still really wanted to be a family. I thought for a time that I could… that I was over the obsession to recover the treasure. That I could move on from my need for revenge. That I could live with John and Anna and be happy… but when I heard the key was out there, again, I just couldn’t. I was a slave to it.”

                Sherlock leaned closer, his voice quiet. “Was it worth it? Your plan of revenge? Was it worth it in the end?”

                She looked at him, fiercely. “As long as the government never sees that treasure, that’s enough for me.”

                “It’s scattered on the bottom of the English Channel,” Sherlock told her. “I doubt _anyone_ will ever see it again.”

                Mary gazed at him. “No, it’s not.”

                Sherlock sat very still and didn’t respond.

                “It was a fake,” she said. She’d realized it later, after she’d been captured, after learning what Mycroft had done to get to it. There was absolutely no way that Sherlock would let him win, after that; the treasure they pulled out of the sea _must_ have been counterfeit. “You found the real one, before, probably using some miniscule clue you’d found on those poor dead fisherman who chartered me out to the spot where I’d hidden it. Then you replaced it with a fake.”

                “That’s preposterous,” said Sherlock evenly. But his eyes were smiling.

                “What will you do with it? You won’t give it to the government, will you?” she asked, suddenly worried. “Sherlock, please, say you won’t give it to them. Please don’t make my entire life, everything I’ve worked for, a waste. Please.”

                Sherlock peered at her through the glass. “It wasn’t a waste, Mary. Anna came from it—it could never be a waste.”

                Mary’s eyes were shining, and she nodded. “I _do_ love her. I do. I know I’ve been selfish, absent… but I love my daughter, Sherlock. In another life, I would have been happy to raise her myself.”

                “Ah, but we don’t get more than one life,” said Sherlock, wisely. “And how lucky am I, to have ended up with your daughter. I am truly grateful. She’s given more meaning and purpose to my existence than I had ever dreamed.”

                Mary nodded again, her face full of regret. “I envy you, then,” she whispered. Then, “Do they hate me? John and Anna?”

                “No,” Sherlock told her. “They pity you.”

                Mary’s face began to tremble. “I wish I could have given it up for them,” she said, again. She was quiet for a moment more, her eyes swimming. “Tell them I love them?”

                Sherlock’s stare became hard and cold. “No,” he said, and Mary blinked at him in confusion. “If you’d loved them, you would have given up _everything_.”

                “Please, Sherlock—“ Mary started, desperately.

                “No, Mary,” he said. “I won’t lie.”

***

                A few weeks later, India’s Department of Culture received a mysteriously heavy package in the mail. It took two large postmen to lift it onto the front desk, where two small receptionists sat, looking at the box and back at each other in confusion. They cut the cardboard, and opened the lid, and inside found an envelope taped to the top of what looked to be an ancient, iron treasure chest.

                Inside the envelope were a sliver key and a short, scrawled note. One receptionist fit the key into the box, then turned it, and lifted the lid. There were stones upon stones, jewels upon jewels, all different shapes and sizes, all different colors, gleaming and sparking in the sun that was shining through the nearby window. Their geometry reflected the light onto both of their faces.

                The other receptionist quickly opened the note, and read it aloud:

                _“Thought it was about time we returned this. Apologies. With love, Great Britain.”_


	40. Epilogue

                “Oh, just let her do it,” said John, exasperated.

                Sherlock gave him a disgusted look. “Absolutely not. That road is impossible to navigate, even for the best of drivers.”

                “Oh, come off it! I can see the length of it, all the way from here to the top of the hill. It looks fine to me.”

                “It’s a one-lane road,” Sherlock tried again. “What happens when a car comes the other way?”

                John rolled his eyes. “Obviously, a very high-stakes game of chicken, in which the loser plummets tragically to their death over the cliff-side.”

                Anna snorted, trying to stifle a laugh.

                “No, you clot,” John continued, abandoning the sarcasm. “We can see the whole bloody road, didn’t I _just_ say that? And who the hell is going to be driving down—there’s one cabin up there, Sherlock, _one_ , and we’ve just rented it.”

                “Well, I—you—well—She’s too _short_ to reach the pedals!”

                Anna scoffed. “I take offense to that! I’ll have you know I’ve grown a whole inch since last month.”

                Sherlock gave her a look. “Anna, that is physically impossible, given your age and gender—“

                “She’s tall enough,” interrupted John. “And she’s going to drive us safely to the top.”

                Sherlock was out of arguments, so he resorted to stomping over to the car and slumping in the backseat.

                Anna’s eyes lit up as John held out the keys to her; she grabbed them excitedly and bounded to the driver’s side. John slid into the passenger seat and adjusted his bad leg to a comfortable position as Anna put the keys into the ignition and gripped the wheel eagerly.

                “John Hamish Watson: survived war, a deadly beating, a bomb, thirteen years in the company of murderous criminals, and multiple armed standoffs with said criminals, only to die as his daughter drove him carelessly off a cliff,” Sherlock proclaimed, to the back window.

                John ignored him. “Put your feet on the break and clutch, Anna, and turn the key until you hear the engine catch.”

                Anna did as she was told, and the little hatchback roared to life.

                “Don’t forget, John,” said Sherlock, his voice gone up an octave, “she was perfectly willing to sacrifice both our lives on a whim. Do you really want someone like _that_ operating this vehicle—“

                Anna turned around and was about to argue the point, but in her haste took her feet off the pedals. The car jolted forward and died, and Sherlock was thrown up against John’s seat. He landed in the crevice between the front and back of the vehicle, legs and arms tangled and sticking out every which way.

                “Sherlock Holmes,” John announced, loudly, “survived jumping off a building, a bullet to the heart, and multiple armed standoffs with dangerous criminals, only to be killed by his refusal to wear a seatbelt.”

                Anna smashed her lips closed to keep from laughing, with a guilty glance back to Sherlock. “Sorry. But he _is_ right, you should really put on your seatbelt.”

                Sherlock clambered back up to the seat and fastened his belt. “You forgot the bullet to my thoracoacromial artery,” he muttered, darkly. “ _And_ my thirteen years in the company of an infuriatingly willful child.”

                John caught Anna’s eye and winked. “Let’s try that again, shall we?”

                Anna eventually got all three of them safely to the top of the hill, unable to tell if it was to Sherlock’s relief or dismay. _Probably a little bit of both_ , she reasoned. They got out of the car and stretched, surveying the ocean view and inspecting the cabin’s façade. It was their first family vacation; just a weekend getaway, but it was a first, and Anna had been seeing a completely new side to Sherlock. John brought out a sharpness and wit and… _humor_ in him that no one else, as far as she’d seen, had ever been able to do.

                And she could see why he loved John. Good-natured, funny, loyal, practical—he provided a much needed balance to Sherlock’s whims and moods and exhausting intellect. The two of them played off each other well, bantering like some great comedic duo… _or a too-long married couple_ , thought Anna. But they were so perfect together, and so obviously made for each other, that Anna couldn’t fathom how they’d each survived on their own for thirteen years.

                “You survived,” commented John, his eyes sparkling with amusement. Sherlock didn’t answer, instead glaring at him in annoyance; but as he walked past to go unlock the cabin, Anna saw him squeeze John’s hand. John smiled after him, affectionately, as he stepped up the stairs to the front door.

                After they’d unloaded their gear and spent some time hiking around the cliffs, Anna, John, and Sherlock had retired to the cabin for a bit of supper. Then they’d all three been in such a giddy mood that after they finished eating, they spent the next few hours playing increasingly crooked games of cards. John and Sherlock began to drink a little brandy and kept on until both sets of their cheeks were pink and the volume of their bickering grew considerably louder. The game culminated in John accusing Sherlock of hiding cards in his sleeve and Sherlock retorting with, “Even if I was, I doubt _you_ would notice!” John had risen from his chair too quickly and tripped over his own feet, cards spilling out of his own shirtsleeves, and Sherlock had roared his outrage. Anna had giggled for quite a long time, after that.

                John then suggested a change in activity, and Sherlock decided to pull out his violin for a “musical interlude.” Anna groaned, telling him that his melancholy tunes would sour the mood. He was affronted and asked her what should he play instead? She stood with a glint in her eye, said roughly that she’d show him if he let her have a sip of that brandy—and Sherlock’s judgment was so loosed by the drink that he gave it to her. John laughed heartily as she coughed and retched and her eyes watered down her face.

                Anna grabbed her fiddle and redeemed herself by playing a catchy jig, and pretty soon John was clapping and stomping along. Sherlock got so swept up in the music, too, that he fiddled along with her—hopping and spinning in place in a little dance to the tune.

                Soon after, Anna collapsed, exhausted, in a comfy chair, and watched through dreamy vision (some of the brandy _had_ made it down her throat) as Sherlock and John stumbled to clear plates and glasses from the long-forgotten supper. Her eyes began to close against her will. She kept nodding off and snapping them open again.

                As Anna lifted her eyelids in defiance for the last time of the night, she saw the shadowy figures of John and Sherlock standing in the kitchen. Their images were flickering from visible to invisible and back again in the dying firelight, but she could see they were standing close, and whispering, and kissing each other warmly. Anna’s lips curled into a smile as her eyes closed and her face finally relaxed. She quickly fell into a deep, contented sleep.

 

 _The End_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, it's finally complete!
> 
> This was the first fic I'd ever written; it started out as a few unrelated, short scenes that I wanted to get out of my head and down on paper, but it gradually grew and took shape as I kept writing. Encouraged by the feedback on my other fics from this lovely AO3 community, I decided to refine this first story and share it, too. It's gone through countless edits and rewrites, and though there are several chapters that I'm still not completely happy with, as a whole I'm proud of this work—if for no other reason than the fact that I finished it. 
> 
> This story is a lot more plot-heavy than the other ones I've written and was very much a challenge for me; as such, sometimes it's convoluted, and it’s sometimes downright ridiculous. (But then again, so are many of the adventures in the Sherlock canon.) So thank you, to all of the readers who made it through until the end! I hope you all enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing. <3
> 
> As always, feedback is very much appreciated.


End file.
